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Exultations 

of 

Ezra  Pound 


University  of  California  •  Berkeley 


From  the  library 

of 
JAMES  D.  HART 


r\  x 


EXULTATIONS 


EXULTATIONS 

OF 

EZRA  POUND 


LONDON 

ELKIN  MATHEWS,  VIGO  STREET 
M  CM  IX 


/  am  an  eternal  spirit  and  the  things  I 
make  are  but  ephemera^  yet  I  endure: 

Yea,  and  the  little  earth  crumbles  beneath 
our  feet  and  we  endure. 


TO 

CARLOS  TRACY  CHESTER 

"  amicitiae  longaevitate  " 


I  HAVE  to  thank  the  Editors  of  the 
English  Review  and  the  Evening- 
Standard  and  St.  James's  Gazette 
for  permission  to  include  in  this 
volume  certain  poems  which  origin 
ally  appeared  in  those  papers. 


t 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

GUIDO  INVITES  YOU  THUS  .           .           ...  .  9 

NIGHT  LITANY  .        .        .        .                .  .  10 

SANDALPHON      .        .        .        .        f        .  .  12 

SESTINA  :  ALTAFORTE       .        .        .        .  .  14 

PIERE  VIDAL  OLD     .        .        .        .        .  .  16 

BALLAD  OF  THE  GOODLY  FERE         .        .  .  19 

HYMN  III  FROM  THE  LATIN  OF  FLAMINIUS  .  22 

SESTINA  FOR  YSOLT  .        .        .        .        .  .  23 

PORTRAIT  (FROM  "LA  MERE  INCONNUE")  .  25 

FAIR  HELENA    .        .        .....  26 

LAUDANTES  DECEM 27 

Aux  BELLES  DE  LONDRES         .       '.        .  .  32 

FRANCESCA -33 

GREEK  EPIGRAM        .        .        .        .        -  .  34 

COLUMBUS'  EPITAPH         .        .        .        .  .  35 

PLOTINUS  .        .        .        *        .        .        .  .  36 

ON  HIS  OWN  FACE  IN  A  GLASS  .        .        .  .  37 

HISTRION  .        .        .        .        *        •        •  •  38 
vii 


PAGE 

THE  EYES  .        .        ...        .        .        .  39 

DEFIANCE  .        .        .        .        .        .        .        .  40 

SONG.        .       .       v 41 

NEL  BlANCHEGGIAR 42 

NILS  LYKKE 43 

A  SONG  OF  THE  VIRGIN  MOTHER      ...  44 

PLANH  FOR  THE  YOUNG  ENGLISH  KING    .        .  46 

ALBA  INNOMINATA 48 

PLANH 50 


EXULTATIONS 


Guido  invites  you  thus 1 

LAPPO  I  leave  behind  and  Dante  too, 
Lo,  I  would  sail  the  seas  with  thee  alone ! 
Talk  me  no  love  talk,  no  bought-cheap  fiddl'ry, 
Mine  is  the  ship  and  thine  the  merchandise, 
All  the  blind  earth  knows  not  th'  emprise 
Whereto  thou  calledst  and  whereto  I  call. 

Lo,  I  have  seen  thee  bound  about  with  dreams, 
Lo,  I  have  known  thy  heart  and  its  desire ; 
Life,  all  of  it,  my  sea,  and  all  men's  streams 
Are  fused  in  it  as  flames  of  an  altar  fire ! 

Lo,  thou  hast  voyaged  not !  The  ship  is  mine. " 
1  The  reference  is  to  Dante's  sonnet  "  Guido  vorrei ..." 


O 


Night  Litany 

DIEU,  purifiez  nos  cceurs! 
purifiez  nos  coeurs ! 


Yea  the  lines  hast  thou  laid  unto  me 
in  pleasant  places, 

And  the  beauty  of  this  thy  Venice 

hast  thou  shown  unto  me 

Until  is  its  loveliness  become  unto  me 
a  thing  of  tears. 

O  God,  what  great  kindness 

have  we  done  in  times  past 
and  forgotten  it, 

That  thou  givest  this  wonder  unto  us, 
O  God  of  waters? 

O  God  of  the  night 

What  great  sorrow 
Cometh  unto  us, 

That  thou  thus  repayest  us 
Before  the  time  of  its  coming? 

O  God  of  silence, 

Purifiez  nos  cceurs, 
Purifiez  nos  cceurs, 

For  we  have  seen 

The  glory  of  the  shadow  of  the 
likeness  of  thine  handmaid, 


Yea,  the  glory  of  the  shadow 
of  thy  Beauty  hath  walked 

Upon  the  shadow  of  the  waters 
In  this  thy  Venice. 

And  before  the  holiness 
Of  the  shadow  of  thy  handmaid 
Have  I  hidden  mine  eyes, 

O  God  of  waters. 

O  God  of  silence, 

Purifiez  nos  cceurs, 

Purifiez  nos  cceurs, 
O  God  of  waters, 

make  clean  our  hearts  within  us 
And  our  lips  to  show  forth  thy  praise, 

For  I  have  seen  the 
Shadow  of  this  thy  Venice 
Floating  upon  the  waters, 

And  thy  stars 

Have  seen  this  thing-  out  of  their  far  courses 
Have  they  seen  this  thing, 

O  God  of  waters, 
Even  as  are  thy  stars 
Silent  unto  us  in  their  far-coursing, 
Even  so  is  mine  heart 

become  silent  within  me. 

Purifiez  nos  cceurs 
O  God  of  the  silence^ 

Purifiez  nos  coeurs 
O  God  of  waters. 

ii 


Sandalphon 


The  angel  of  prayer  according-  to  the  Talmud  stands  unmoved 
among  the  angels  of  wind  and  fire,  who  die  as  their  one  song  is 
finished,  also  as  he  gathers  the  prayers  they  turn  to  flowers  in  his 
hands. 

AND  these  about  me  die, 
Because  the  pain  of  the  infinite  singing 
Slayeth  them. 
Ye  that  have  sung  of  the  pain  of  the  earth-horde's 

age-long  crusading, 
Ye  know  somewhat  the  strain, 

the  sad-sweet  wonder-pain  of  such  singing. 
And  therefore  ye  know  after  what  fashion 
This  singing  hath  power  destroying. 

Yea,  these  about  me,  bearing  such  song  in  homage 

Unto  the  Mover  of  Circles, 

Die  for  the  might  of  their  praising, 

And  the  autumn  of  their  marcescent  wings 

Maketh  ever  new  loam  for  my  forest ; 

And  these  grey  ash  trees  hold  within  them 

All  the  secrets  of  whatso  things 

They  dreamed  before  their  praises, 

And  in  this  grove  my  flowers, 

Fruit  of  prayerful  powers, 

Have  first  their  thought  of  life 

And  then  their  being. 
12 


Ye  marvel  that  I  die  not !  forsitan  \ 

Thinking  me  kin  with  such  as  may  not  weep, 

Thinking-  me  part  of  them  that  die  for  praising 

— yea,  tho'  it  be  praising, 

past  the  power  of  man's  mortality  to 

dream  or  name  its  phases, 

— yea,  tho'  it  chant  and  paean 

past  the  might  of  earth-dwelt 

soul  to  think  on, 

— yea,  tho'  it  be  praising 

as  these  the  winged  ones  die  of. 

Ye  think  me  one  insensate 

else  die  I  also 
Sith  these  about  me  die, 
And  if  I,  watching 
Ever  the  multiplex  jewel,  of  beryl  and  jasper 

and  sapphire 

Make  of  these  prayers  of  earth  ever  new  flowers ; 
Marvel  and  wonder ! 
Marvel  and  wonder  even  as  I, 
Giving  to  prayer  new  language 
And  causing  the  works  to  speak 
Of  the  earth-horde's  age-lasting  longing, 
Even  as  I  marvel  and  wonder,  and  know  not, 
Yet  keep  my  watch  in  the  ash  wood. 


Sestina:  Altaforte 

LOQUITUR :  En  Bertrans  de  Born. 

Dante  Alighieri  put  this  man  in  hell  for  that  he  was  a  stirrer- 
up  of  strife. 
Eccovi ! 
Judge  ye ! 
Have  I  dug  him  up  again? 

The  scene  is  at  his  castle,  Altaforte.    "  Papiols  "  is  his  jongleur. 

The  Leopard,"  the  device  of  Richard  (Cceur  de  Lion). 

I 

DAMN  it  all!  all  this  our  South  stinks  peace. 
You  whoreson  dog,   Papiols,  come!    Let's  to 
music ! 

I  have  no  life  save  when  the  swords  clash. 
But  ah !  when  I  see  the  standards  gold,  vair,  purple, 

opposing 

And  the  broad  fields  beneath  them  turn  crimson, 
Then  howl  I  my  heart  nigh  mad  with  rejoicing. 

II 

In  hot  summer  have  I  great  rejoicing 

When  the  tempests  kill  the  earth's  foul  peace, 

And  the  light'nings  from  black  heav'n  flash  crimson, 

And  the  fierce  thunders  roar  me  their  music 

And  the  winds  shriek  through  the  clouds  mad,  opposing, 

And  through  all  the  riven  skies  God's  swords  clash. 

HI 

Hell  grant  soon  we  hear  again  the  swords  clash ! 
And  the  shrill  neighs  of  destriers  in  battle  rejoicing, 
Spiked  breast  to  spiked  breast  opposing! 


Better  one  hour's  stour  than  a  year's  peace 
With  fat  boards,  bawds,  wine  and  frail  music ! 
Bah !  there's  no  wine  like  the  blood's  crimson ! 

IV 

And  I  love  to  see  the  sun  rise  blood-crimson. 
And  I  watch  his  spears  through  the  dark  clash 
And  it  fills  all  my  heart  with  rejoicing 
And  pries  wide  my  mouth  with  fast  music 
When  I  see  him  so  scorn  and  defy  peace, 
His  lone  might  'gainst  all  darkness  opposing. 

V 

The  man  who  fears  war  and  squats  opposing 
My  words  for  stour,  hath  no  blood  of  crimson 
But  is  fit  only  to  rot  in  womanish  peace 
Far  from  where  worth's  won  and  the  swords  clash 
For  the  death  of  such  sluts  I  go  rejoicing; 
Yea,  I  fill  all  the  air  with  my  music. 

VI 

Papiols,  Papiols,  to  the  music ! 

There's  no  sound  like  to  swords  swords  opposing, 

No  cry  like  the  battle's  rejoicing 

When  our  elbows  and  swords  drip  the  crimson 

And  our  charges  'gainst  "The  Leopard's"  rush  clash. 

May  God  damn  for  ever  all  who  cry  "  Peace !  " 

VII 

And  let  the  music  of  the  swords  make  them  crimson ! 
Hell  grant  soon  we  hear  again  the  swords  clash ! 
Hell  blot  black  for  alway  the  thought  "  Peace  " ! 
IS 


Piere  Vidal  Old 

It  is  of  Piere  Vidal,  the  fool  par  excellence  of  all  Provence,  of 
whom  the  tale  tells  how  he  ran  mad,  as  a  wolf,  because  of  his  love 
for  Loba  of  Penautier,  and  how  men  hunted  him  with  dogs  through 
the  mountains  of  Cabaret  and  brought  him  for  dead  to  the  dwelling 
of  this  Loba  (she-wolf)  of  Penautier,  and  how  she  and  her  Lord 
had  him  healed  and  made  welcome,  and  he  stayed  some  time  at 
that  court.  He  speaks  : 

WHEN  I  but  think  upon  the  great  dead  days 
And  turn  my  mind  upon  that  splendid  madness, 
Lo !  I  do  curse  my  strength 
And  blame  the  sun  his  gladness ; 
For  that  the  one  is  dead 
And  the  red  sun  mocks  my  sadness. 

Behold  me,  Vidal,  that  was  fool  of  fools ! 
Swift  as  the  king  wolf  was  I  and  as  strong 
When  tall  stags  fled  me  through  the  alder  brakes, 
And  every  jongleur  knew  me  in  his  song, 
And  the  hounds  fled  and  the  deer  fled 
And  none  fled  over  long. 

Even  the  grey  pack  knew  me  and  knew  fear. 
God !  how  the  swiftest  hind's  blood  spurted  hot 
Over  the  sharpened  teeth  and  purpling  lips ! 
Hot  was  that  hind's  blood  yet  it  scorched  me  not 
As  did  first  scorn,  then  lips  of  the  Penautier ! 
Aye  ye  are  fools,  if  ye  think  time  can  blot 
16 


From  Piere  Vidal's  remembrance  that  blue  night. 
God !  but  the  purple  of  the  sky  was  deep ! 
Clear,  deep,  translucent,  so  the  stars  me  seemed 
Set  deep  in  crystal ;  and  because  my  sleep 
— Rare  visitor — came  not, — the  Saints  I  guerdon 
For  that  restlessness — Piere  set  to  keep 

One  more  fool's  vigil  with  the  hollyhocks. 

Swift  came  the  Loba,  as  a  branch  that's  caught, 

Torn,  green  and  silent  in  the  swollen  Rhone, 

Green  was  her  mantle,  close,  and  wrought 

Of  some  thin  silk  stuff  that's  scarce  stuff  at  all, 

But  like  a  mist  wherethrough  her  white  form  fought, 

And  conquered!   Ah  God!  conquered! 
Silent  my  mate  came  as  the  night  was  still. 
Speech?   Words?    Faugh!   Who  talks  of  words  and 

love?! 

Hot  is  such  love  and  silent, 
Silent  as  fate  is,  and  as  strong  until 
It  faints  in  taking  and  in  giving  all. 

Stark,  keen,  triumphant,  till  it  plays  at  death. 
God !  she  was  white  then,  splendid  as  some  tomb 
High  wrought  of  marble,  and  the  panting  breath 
Ceased  utterly.    Well,  then  I  waited,  drew, 
Half-sheathed,  then  naked  from  its  saffron  sheath 
Drew  full  this  dagger  that  doth  tremble  here. 

Just  then  she  woke  and  mocked  the  less  keen  blade. 

Ah  God,  the  Loba !  and  my  only  mate ! 

Was  there  such  flesh  made  ever  and  unmade ! 

17  B 


God  curse  the  years  that  turn  such  women  grey ! 
Behold  here  Vidal,  that  was  hunted,  flayed, 
Shamed  and  yet  bowed  not  and  that  won  at  last. 

And  yet  I  curse  the  sun  for  his  red  gladness, 
I  that  have  known  strath,  garth,  brake,  dale, 
And  every  run-way  of  the  wood  through  that  great 

madness, 

Behold  me  shrivelled  as  an  old  oak's  trunk 
And  made  men's  mock'ry  in  my  rotten  sadness ! 

No  man  hath  heard  the  glory  of  my  days  : 
No  man  hath  dared  and  won  his  dare  as  I : 
One  night,  one  body  and  one  welding  flame ! 
What  do  ye  own,  ye  niggards !  that  can  buy 
Such  glory  of  the  earth?    Or  who  will  win 
Such  battle-guerdon  with  his  "prowesse  high"? 

O  Age  gone  lax !    O  stunted  followers, 
That  mask  at  passions  and  desire  desires, 
Behold  me  shrivelled,  and  your  mock  of  mocks ; 
And  yet  I  mock  you  by  the  mighty  fires 
That  burnt  me  to  this  ash. 

Ah !   Cabaret !   Ah  Cabaret,  thy  hills  again ! 


Take  your  hands  off  me !  .  .  .  [Sniffing  the  air. 

Ha !  this  scent  is  hot ! 


18 


Ballad  of  the  Goodly  Fere1 

Simon  Zelotes  speaketh  it  somewhile  after  the  Crucifixion. 

HA'  we  lost  the  goodliest  fere  o'  all 
For  the  priests  and  the  gallows  tree? 
Aye  lover  he  was  of  brawny  men, 
O'  ships  and  the  open  sea. 

When  they  came  wi'  a  host  to  take  Our  Man 
His  smile  was  good  to  see, 
"First  let  these  go!"  quo'  our  Goodly  Fere, 
"Or  I'll  see  ye  damned,"  says  he. 

Aye  he  sent  us  out  through  the  crossed  high  spears 
And  the  scorn  of  his  laugh  rang  free, 
"Why  took  ye  not  me  when  I  walked  about 
Alone  in  the  town?"  says  he. 

Oh  we  drank  his  "Hale"  in  the  good  red  wine 

When  we  last  made  company, 

No  capon  priest  was  the  Goodly  Fere 

But  a  man  o'  men  was  he. 

I  ha'  seen  him  drive  a  hundred  men 
Wi'  a  bundle  o'  cords  swung  free, 
That  they  took  the  high  and  holy  house 
For  their  pawn  and  treasury. 

1  Fere  =  Mate,  Companion. 
19 


They'll  no'  get  him  a'  in  a  book  I  think 
Though  they  write  it  cunningly ; 
No  mouse  of  the  scrolls  was  the  Goodly  Fere 
But  aye  loved  the  open  sea. 

If  they  think  they  ha'  snared  our  Goodly  Fere 
They  are  fools  to  the  last  degree. 
"I'll  go  to  the  feast,"  quo'  our  Goodly  Fere, 
"Though  I  go  to  the  gallows  tree." 

"Ye  ha'  seen  me  heal  the  lame  and  blind, 
And  wake  the  dead,"  says  he, 
"Ye  shall  see  one  thing  to  master  all: 
'Tis  how  a  brave  man  dies  on  the  tree." 

A  son  of  God  was  the  Goodly  Fere 
That  bade  us  his  brothers  be. 
I  ha'  seen  him  cow  a  thousand  men. 
I  have  seen  him  upon  the  tree. 

He  cried  no  cry  when  they  drave  the  nails 
And  the  blood  gushed  hot  and  free, 
The  hounds  of  the  crimson  sky  gave  tongue 
But  never  a  cry  cried  he. 

I  ha'  seen  him  cow  a  thousand  men 
On  the  hills  o'  Galilee, 

They  whined  as  he  walked  out  calm  between, 
Wi'  his  eyes  like  the  grey  o'  the  sea. 
20 


Like  the  sea  that  brooks  no  voyaging 
With  the  winds  unleashed  and  free, 
Like  the  sea  that  he  cowed  at  Genseret 
Wi'  twey  words  spoke'  suddently. 

A  master  of  men  was  the  Goodly  Fere, 
A  mate  of  the  wind  and  sea, 
If  they  think  they  ha'  slain  our  Goodly  Fere 
They  are  fools  eternally. 

I  ha'  seen  him  eat  o'  the  honey-comb 
Sin'  they  nailed  him  to  the  tree. 

V  The  Publisher  desires  to  state  that  the  "Ballad  of  the 
Goodly  Fere  " — by  the  ivish  of  the  Author — is  reproduced  exactly 
as  it  appeared  in  the  "  English  Review. " 


21 


Hymn  III 

From  the  Latin  of  Marc  Antony  Flaminius,  sixteenth  century. 

AS  a  fragile  and  lovely  flower  unfolds  its  gleaming- 
foliage  on  the  breast  of  the  fostering  earth,  if 
the  dew  and  the  rain  draw  it  forth ; 
So  doth  my  tender  mind  flourish,  if  it  be  fed  with  the 

sweet  dew  of  the  fostering  spirit, 
Lacking  this,  it  beginneth  straightway  to  languish, 
even  as  a  floweret  born  upon  dry  earth,  if  the 
dew  and  the  rain  tend  it  not. 


22 


Sestina  for  Ysolt 

comes  upon  me  will  to  speak  in  praise 
Of  things  most  fragile  in  their  loveliness ; 
Because  the  sky  hath  wept  all  this  long  day 
And  wrapped  men's  hearts  within  its  cloak  of  grey- 
ness, 

Because  they  look  not  down  I  sing  the  stars, 
Because  'tis  still  mid-March  I  praise  May's  flowers. 

Also  I  praise  long  hands  that  lie  as  flowers 
Which  though  they  labour  not  are  worthy  praise, 
And  praise  deep  eyes  like  pools  wherein  the  stars 
Gleam  out  reflected  in  their  loveliness, 
For  whoso  look  on  such  there  is  no  greyness 
May  hang  about  his  heart  on  any  day. 

The  other  things  that  I  would  praise  to-day  ? 

Besides  white  hands  and  all  the  fragile  flowers, 

And  by  their  praise  dispel  the  evening's  greyness  ? 

I  praise  dim  hair  that  worthiest  is  of  praise 

And  dream  upon  its  unbound  loveliness, 

And  how  therethrough  mine  eyes  have  seen  the  stars. 

Yea,  through  that  cloud  mine  eyes  have  seen  the  stars 
That  drift  out  slowly  when  night  steals  the  day, 
Through  such  a  cloud  meseems  their  loveliness 
23 


Surpasses  that  of  all  the  other  flowers. 

For  that  one  night  I  give  all  nights  my  praise 

And  love  therefrom  the  twilight's  coming  greyness. 

There  is  a  stillness  in  this  twilight  greyness 
Although  the  rain  hath  veiled  the  flow'ry  stars, 
They  seem  to  listen  as  I  weave  this  praise 
Of  what  I  have  not  seen  all  this  grey  day, 
And  they  will  tell  my  praise  unto  the  flowers 
When  May  shall  bid  them  in  in  loveliness. 

O  ye  I  love,  who  hold  this  loveliness 

Near  to  your  hearts,  may  never  any  greyness 

Enshroud  your  hearts  when  ye  would  gather  flowers, 

Or  bind  your  eyes  when  ye  would  see  the  stars ; 

But  alway  do  I  give  ye  flowers  by  day, 

And  when  day's  plucked  I  give  ye  stars  for  praise. 

But  most,  thou  Flower,  whose  eyes  are  like  the  stars, 
With  whom  my  dreams  bide  all  the  live-long  day, 
Within  thy  hands  would  I  rest  all  my  praise. 


Portrait 

From  "La  M£re  Inconnue." 

NOW  would  I  weave  her  portrait  out  of  all  dim 
splendour. 

Of  Provence  and  far  halls  of  memory, 
Lo,  there  come  echoes,  faint  diversity 
Of  blended  bells  at  even's  end,  or 
As  the  distant  seas  should  send  her 
The  tribute  of  their  trembling,  ceaselessly 
Resonant.    Out  of  all  dreams  that  be, 
Say,  shall  I  bid  the  deepest  dreams  attend  her? 

Nay !    For  I  have  seen  the  purplest  shadows  stand 
Alway  with  reverent  chere  that  looked  on  her, 
Silence  himself  is  grown  her  worshipper 
And  ever  doth  attend  her  in  that  land 
Wherein  she  reigneth,  wherefore  let  there  stir 
Naught  but  the  softest  voices,  praising  her. 


"  Fair  Helena  "  by  Rackham 

"  What  I  love  best  in  all  the  world?  " 

WHEN  the  purple  twilight  is  unbound, 
To  watch  her  slow,  tall  grace 

and  its  wistful  loveliness, 
And  to  know  her  face 

is  in  the  shadow  there, 
Just  by  two  stars  beneath  that  cloud — 
The  soft,  dim  cloud  of  her  hair, 
And  to  think  my  voice 

can  reach  to  her 

As  but  the  rumour  of  some  tree-bound  stream, 
Heard  just  beyond  the  forest's  edge, 
Until  she  all  forgets  I  am, 
And  knows  of  me 
Naught  but  my  dream's  felicity. 


26 


Laudantes  Decem  Pulchritudinis 
Johannae  Templi 

i 

WHEN  your  beauty  is  grown  old  in  all  men's 
songs, 

And  my  poor  words  are  lost  amid  that  throng, 
Then  you  will  know  the  truth  of  my  poor  words, 
And  mayhap  dreaming  of  the  wistful  throng 
That  hopeless  sigh  your  praises  in  their  songs, 
You  will  think  kindly  then  of  these  mad  words. 

II 

I  am  torn,  torn  with  thy  beauty, 
O  Rose  of  the  sharpest  thorn ! 
O  Rose  of  the  crimson  beauty, 
Why  hast  thou  awakened  the  sleeper? 
Why  hast  thou  awakened  the  heart  within  me, 
O  Rose  of  the  crimson  thorn? 

Ill 

The  unappeasable  loveliness 

is  calling  to  me  out  of  the  wind, 
And  because  your  name 

is  written  upon  the  ivory  doors, 

The  wave  in  my  heart  is  as  a  green  wave,  unconfined, 
Tossing  the  white  foam  toward  you ; 
27 


And  the  lotus  that  pours 
Her  fragrance  into  the  purple  cup, 
Is  more  to  be  gained  with  the  foam 
Than  are  you  with  these  words  of  mine. 

IV 
He  speaks  to  the  moonlight  concerning  the  Beloved. 

Pale  hair  that  the  moon  has  shaken 
Down  over  the  dark  breast  of  the  sea, 

0  magic  her  beauty  has  shaken 
About  the  heart  of  me ; 

Out  of  you  have  I  woven  a  dream 
That  shall  walk  in  the  lonely  vale 
Betwixt  the  high  hill  and  the  low  hill, 
Until  the  pale  stream 
Of  the  souls  of  men  quench  and  grow  still. 

V 
Voices  speaking  to  the  sun. 

Red  leaf  that  art  blown  upward  and  out  and  over 

The  green  sheaf  of  the  world, 

And  through  the  dim  forest  and  under 

The  shadowed  arches  and  the  aisles, 

We,  who  are  older  than  thou  art, 

Met  and  remembered  when  his  eyes  beheld  her 

In  the  garden  of  the  peach-trees, 

In  the  day  of  the  blossoming. 

VI 

1  stood  on  the  hill  of  Yrma 

when  the  winds  were  a-hurrying, 
28 


With  the  grasses  a-bending 

I  followed  them, 
Through  the  brown  grasses  of  Ahva 

unto  the  green  of  Asedon. 
I  have  rested  with  the  voices 

in  the  gardens  of  Ahthor, 
I  have  lain  beneath  the  peach-trees 

in  the  hour  of  the  purple : 

Because  I  had  awaited  in 

the  garden  of  the  peach-trees, 
Because  I  had  feared  not 

in  the  forest  of  my  mind, 
Mine  eyes  beheld  the  vision  of  the  blossom 
There  in  the  peach-gardens  past  Asedon. 

O  winds  of  Yrma,  let  her  again  come  unto  me, 
Whose  hair  ye  held  unbound  in  the  gardens  of  Ahthor ! 


VII 

Because  of  the   beautiful  white  shoulders  and   the 

rounded  breasts 

I  can  in  no  wise  forget  my  beloved  of  the  peach-trees, 
And  the  little  winds  that  speak  when  the  dawn  is 

unfurled 
And  the  rose-colour  in  the  grey  oak-leafs  fold 

When  it  first  conies,  and  the  glamour  that  rests 
On  the  little  streams  in  the  evening ;  all  of  these 
29 


Call  me  to  her,  and  all  the  loveliness  in  the  world 
Binds  me  to  my  beloved  with  strong  chains  of  gold. 

VIII 

If  the  rose-petals  which  have  fallen  upon  my  eyes 
And  if  the  perfect  faces  which  I  see  at  times 
When  my  eyes  are  closed — 
Faces  fragile,  pale,  yet  flushed  a  little,  like  petals  of 

roses : 

If  these  things  have  confused  my  memories  of  her 
So  that  I  could  not  draw  her  face 
Even  if  I  had  skill  and  the  colours, 
Yet  because  her  face  is  so  like  these  things 
They  but  draw  me  nearer  unto  her  in  my  thought 
And  thoughts  of  her  come  upon  my  mind  gently, 
As  dew  upon  the  petals  of  roses. 

IX 

He  speaks  to  the  rain. 

O  pearls  that  hang  on  your  little  silver  chains, 
The  innumerable  voices  that  are  whispering 
Among  you  as  you  are  drawn  aside  by  the  wind, 
Have  brought  to  my  mind  the  soft  and  eager  speech 
Of  one  who  hath  great  loveliness, 

Which  is  subtle  as  the  beauty  of  the  rains 

That  hang  low  in  the  moonshine  and  bring 

The  May  softly  among  us,  and  unbind 

The  streams  and  the  crimson  and  white  flowers  and 

reach 

Deep  down  into  the  secret  places. 
30 


X 

The  glamour  of  the  soul  hath  come  upon  me, 

And  as  the  twilight  comes  upon  the  roses, 

Walking  silently  among  them, 

So  have  the  thoughts  of  my  heart 

Gone  out  slowly  in  the  twilight 

Toward  my  beloved, 

Toward  the  crimson  rose,  the  fairest. 


Aux  Belles  de  Londres 

I  AM  aweary  with  the  utter  and  beautiful  weariness 
And  with   the  ultimate  wisdom  and  with  things 

terrene, 

I  am  aweary  with  your  smiles  and  your  laughter, 
And  the  sun  and  the  winds  again 
Reclaim  their  booty  and  the  heart  o'  me. 


Francesca 

YOU  came  in  out  of  the  night 
And  there  were  flowers  in  your  hands, 
Now  you  will  come  out  of  a  confusion  of  people, 
Out  of  a  turmoil  of  speech  about  you. 

I  who  have  seen  you  amid  the  primal  things 

Was  angry  when  they  spoke  your  name 

In  ordinary  places. 

I  would   that  the  cool  waves  might  flow  over  my 

mind, 

And  that  the  world  should  dry  as  a  dead  leaf, 
Or  as  a  dandelion  seed-pod  and  be  swept  away, 
So  that  I  might  find  you  again, 
Alone. 


33 


Greek  Epigram 


DAY  and  night  are  never  weary, 
Nor  yet  is  God  of  creating 
For  day  and  night  their  torch-bearers 
The  aube  and  the  crepuscule. 

So,  when  I  weary  of  praising  the  dawn  and  the  sun 
set, 

Let  me  be  no  more  counted  among  the  immortals ; 
But  number  me  amid  the  wearying  ones, 
Let  me  be  a  man  as  the  herd, 
And  as  the  slave  that  is  given  in  barter. 


34 


Christophori  Columbi  Tumulus 

From  the  Latin  of  Hipolytus  Capilupus,  Early  Cent.  XVI. 

GENOAN,    glory  of  Italy,  Columbus  thou  sure 
light, 

Alas  the  urn  takes  even  thee  so  soon  out-blown. 
Its  little  space 

Doth  hold  thee,  whom  Oceanus  had  not  the  might 
Within  his  folds  to  hold,  altho'  his  broad  embrace 
Doth  hold  all  lands. 

Bark-borne  beyond  his  bound'ries  unto  Hind  thou  wast 
Where  scarce  Fame's  volant  self  the  way  had  cast. 


Plotinus 

AS  one  that  would  draw  through  the  node  of  things, 
Back  sweeping  to  the  vortex  of  the  cone, 
Cloistered  about  with  memories,  alone 
In  chaos,  while  the  waiting  silence  sings : 

Obliviate  of  cycles'  wanderings 
I  was  an  atom  on  creation's  throne 
And  knew  all  nothing  my  unconquered  own. 

God!  Should  I  be  the  hand  upon  the  strings?! 

But  I  was  lonely  as  a  lonely  child. 
I  cried  amid  the  void  and  heard  no  cry, 
And  then  for  utter  loneliness,  made  I 
New  thoughts  as  crescent  images  of  me. 
And  with  them  was  my  essence  reconciled 
While  fear  went  forth  from  mine  eternity. 


On  His  Own  Face  in  a  Glass 

O  STRANGE  face  there  in  the  glass ! 
O  ribald  company,  O  saintly  host, 
O  sorrow-swept  my  fool, 
What  answer?  O  ye  myriad 
That  strive  and  play  and  pass, 
Jest,  challenge,  counterlie? 
I?  I?  I? 

And  ye? 


37 


Histrion 

NO  man  hath  dared  to  write  this  thing  as  yet, 
And  yet  I  know,  how  that  the  souls  of  all  men 
great 

At  times  pass  through  us, 
And  we  are  melted  into  them,  and  are  not 
Save  reflexions  of  their  souls. 
Thus  am  I  Dante  for  a  space  and  am 
One  Fran9ois  Villon,  ballad-lord  and  thief 
Or  am  such  holy  ones  I  may  not  write, 
Lest  blasphemy  be  writ  against  my  name ; 
This  for  an  instant  and  the  flame  is  gone. 

'Tis  as  in  midmost  us  there  glows  a  sphere 
Translucent,  molten  gold,  that  is  the  "  I  " 
And  into  this  some  form  projects  itself: 
Christus,  or  John,  or  eke  the  Florentine ; 
And  as  the  clear  space  is  not  if  a  form's 
Imposed  thereon, 

So  cease  we  from  all  being  for  the  time, 
And  these,  the  Masters  of  the  Soul,  live  on. 


The  Eyes 

REST  Master,  for  we  be  a-weary,  weary 
And  would  feel  the  fingers  of  the  wind 
Upon  these  lids  that  lie  over  us 
Sodden  and  lead-heavy. 

Rest  brother,  for  lo !  the  dawn  is  without ! 
The  yellow  flame  paleth 
And  the  wax  runs  low. 

Free  us,  for  without  be  goodly  colours, 
Green  of  the  wood-moss  and  flower  colours, 
And  coolness  beneath  the  trees. 

Free  us,  for  we  perish 
In  this  ever-flowing  monotony 
Of  ugly  print  marks,  black 
Upon  white  parchment. 

Free  us,  for  there  is  one 
Whose  smile  more  availeth 
Than  all  the  age-old  knowledge  of  thy  books : 
And  we  would  look  thereon. 


39 


Defiance 

YE  blood-red  spears-men  of  the  dawn's  array 
That  drive  my  dusk-clad  knights  of  dream  away, 
Hold !  For  I  will  not  yield. 

My  moated  soul  shall  dream  in  your  despite 
A  refuge  for  the  vanquished  hosts  of  night 
That  can  not  yield. 


Song 


LOVE  thou  thy  dream 
All  base  love  scorning, 
Love  thou  the  wind 
And  here  take  warning 
That  dreams  alone  can  truly  be, 
For  'tis  in  dream  I  come  to  thee. 


Nel  Biancheggiar 

"D  LUE-GREY,  and  white,  and  white-of-rose, 
•LJ  The  flowers  of  the  West's  fore-dawn  unclose. 
I  feel  the  dusky  softness  whirr 
Of  colour,  as  upon  a  dulcimer 
"  Her  "  dreaming  fingers  lay  between  the  tunes, 
As  when  the  living  music  swoons 
But  dies  not  quite,  because  for  love  of  us 
— knowing  our  state 
How  that  'tis  troublous- 
It  wills  not  die  to  leave  us  desolate. 


Nils  Lykke 

BEAUTIFUL,  infinite  memories 
That  are  a-plucking  at  my  heart, 
Why  will  you  be  ever  calling-  and  a-calling, 
And  a-murmuring  in  the  dark  there? 
And  a-reaching  out  your  long  hands 
Between  me  and  my  beloved? 

And  why  will  you  be  ever  a-casting 
The  black  shadow  of  your  beauty 
On  the  white  face  of  my  beloved 
And  a-glinting  in  the  pools  of  her  eyes? 


43 


A  Song  of  the  Virgin  Mother 

In  the  play  "  Los  Pastores  de  Belen." 
From  the  Spanish  of  Lope  de  Vega. 

AS  ye  go  through  these  palm-trees 
O  holy  angels ; 
Sith  sleepeth  my  child  here 
Still  ye  the  branches. 

O  Bethlehem  palm-trees 
That  move  to  the  anger 
Of  winds  in  their  fury, 
Tempestuous  voices, 
Make  ye  no  clamour, 
Run  ye  less  swiftly, 
Sith  sleepeth  the  child  here 
Still  ye  your  branches. 

He  the  divine  child 
Is  here  a-wearied 
Of  weeping  the  earth-pain, 
Here  for  his  rest  would  he 
Cease  from  his  mourning, 
Only  a  little  while, 
Sith  sleepeth  this  child  here 
Stay  ye  the  branches. 
44 


Cold  be  the  fierce  winds, 
Treacherous  round  him. 
Ye  see  that  I  have  not 
Wherewith  to  guard  him, 
O  angels,  divine  ones 
That  pass  us  a-flying, 
Sith  sleepeth  my  child  here 
Stay  ye  the  branches. 


45 


Planh  for  the  Young  English 
King 

That  is,  Prince  Henry  Plantagenet^  elder  brother  to 
Richard  "  Coeur  de  Lion." 

From  the  Provencal  of  Bertrans  de  Born  "  Si  tuit  li  dol  elh 
plor  elh  marrimen." 

IF  all  the  grief  and  woe  and  bitterness, 
All  dolour,  ill  and  every  evil  chance 
That  ever  came  upon  this  grieving  world 
Were  set  together  they  would  seem  but  light 
Against  the  death  of  the  young  English  King. 
Worth  lieth  riven  and  Youth  dolorous, 
The  world  o'ershadowed,  soiled  and  overcast, 
Void  of  all  joy  and  full  of  ire  and  sadness. 


Grieving  and  sad  and  full  of  bitterness 
Are  left  in  teen  the  liegemen  courteous, 
The  joglars  supple  and  the  troubadours. 
O'er  much  hath  ta'en  Sir  Death  that  deadly  warrior 
In  taking  from  them  the  young  English  King, 
Who  made  the  freest  hand  seem  covetous. 
'Las !  Never  was  nor  will  be  in  this  world 
The  balance  for  this  loss  in  ire  and  sadness ! 
46 


O  skilful  Death  and  full  of  bitterness, 

Well  mayst  thou  boast  that  thou  the  best  chevalier 

That  any  folk  e'er  had,  hast  from  us  taken ; 

Sith  nothing  is  that  unto  worth  pertaineth 

But  had  its  life  in  the  young  English  King, 

And  better  were  it,  should  God  grant  his  pleasure 

That  he  should  live  than  many  a  living  dastard 

That  doth  but  wound  the  good  with  ire  and  sadness. 

From  this  faint  world,  how  full  of  bitterness 

Love  takes  his  way  and  holds  his  joy  deceitful, 

Sith  no  thing  is  but  turneth  unto  anguish 

And  each  to-day  'vails  less  than  yestere'en, 

Let  each  man  visage  this  young  English  King 

That  was  most  valiant  mid  all  worthiest  men ! 

Gone  is  his  body  fine  and  amorous, 

Whence  have  we  grief,  discord  and  deepest  sadness. 

Him,  whom  it  pleased  for  our  great  bitterness 
To  come  to  earth  to  draw  us  from  misventure, 
Who  drank  of  death  for  our  salvacioun, 
Him  do  we  pray  as  to  a  Lord  most  righteous 
And  humble  eke,  that  the  young  English  King 
He  please  to  pardon,  as  true  pardon  is, 
And  bid  go  in  with  honoured  companions 
There  where  there  is  no  grief,  nor  shall  be  sadness. 


47 


Alba  Innominata 

From  the  Provenqal. 

IN   a  garden   where  the  whitethorn   spreads   her 
leaves 

My  lady  hath  her  love  lain  close  beside  her, 
Till    the    warder    cries    the    dawn — Ah   dawn    that 

grieves ! 
Ah  God !  Ah  God !  That  dawn  should  come  so  soon ! 

"  Please  God  that  night,  dear  night  should   never 

cease, 

Nor  that  my  love  should  parted  be  from  me, 
Nor  watch  cry  *  Dawn' — Ah  dawn  that  slayeth  peace! 
Ah  God !  Ah  God !  That  dawn  should  come  so  soon ! 

"  Fair  friend  and  sweet,  thy  lips !  Our  lips  again! 
Lo,  in  the  meadow  there  the  birds  give  song ! 
Ours  be  the  love  and  Jealousy's  the  pain ! 
Ah  God !  Ah  God !  That  dawn  should  come  so  soon ! 

"  Sweet  friend  and  fair  take  we  our  joy  again 
Down  in  the  garden,  where  the  birds  are  loud, 
Till  the  warder's  reed  astrain 
Cry  God !  Ah  God !  That  dawn  should  come  so  soon! 


"  Of  that  sweet  wind  that  comes  from  Far- A  way 
Have  I  drunk  deep  of  my  Beloved's  breath, 
Yea!  of  my  Love's  that  is  so  dear  and  gay. 
Ah   God !    Ah   God !    That   dawn   should    come    so 
soon!  ' 

Envoi. 

Fair  is  this  damsel  and  right  courteous, 

And  many  watch  her  beauty's  gracious  way. 

Her  heart  toward  love  is  no  wise  traitorous. 

Ah  God !  Ah  God !  That  dawns  should  come  so  soon  ! 


49 


Planh 

It  is  of  the  -white  thoughts  that  he  saw  in  the  Forest. 

WHITE  Poppy,  heavy  with  dreams, 
O  White  Poppy,  who  art  wiser  than  love, 
Though  I  am  hungry  for  their  lips 
When  I  see  them  a-hiding 

And  a-passing  out  and  in  through  the  shadows 
— There  in  the  pine  wood  it  is, 
And  they  are  white,  White  Poppy, 
They  are  white  like  the  clouds  in  the  forest  of  the  sky 
Ere  the  stars  arise  to  their  hunting. 

0  White  Poppy,  who  art  wiser  than  love, 

1  am  come  for  peace,  yea  from  the  hunting 
Am  I  come  to  thee  for  peace. 

Out  of  a  new  sorrow  it  is, 

That  my  hunting  hath  brought  me. 

White  Poppy,  heavy  with  dreams, 

Though  I  am  hungry  for  their  lips 

When  I  see  them  a-hiding 

And  a-passing  out  and  in  through  the  shadows 
— And  it  is  white  they  are — 
But  if  one  should  look  at  me  with  the  old  hunger  in 

her  eyes, 

How  will  I  be  answering  her  eyes? 
50 


For  I  have  followed  the  white  folk  of  the  forest. 

Aye !    It's  a  long  hunting 

And  it's  a  deep   hunger  I   have   when  I  see  them 

a-gliding 
And  a-flickering  there,  where  the  trees  stand  apart. 

But  oh,  it  is  sorrow  and  sorrow 
When  love  dies-down  in  the  heart. 


5' 


CHISWICK  PRESS  I    CHARLES  WHITTINGHAM  AND  CO. 
TOOKS  COURT,  CHANCERY  LANE,  LONDON 


BY  THE  SAME  AUTHOR 

Personae 

Choicely  Printed  at  the  Chiswick  Press  on  fine 
paper.   Foolscap  Octavo,  2s.  6d.  net 

SOME  EARLY  REVIEWS 

The  Observer  says: — "It is  something,  after  all,  intangible  and 
indescribable  that  makes  the  real  poetry.  Criticism  and  praise  alike 
give  no  idea  of  it.  Everyone  who  pretends  to  know  it  when  he 
sees  it,  should  read  and  keep  this  little  book. " 

The  Bookman : — "  No  new  book  of  poems  for  years  past  has  had 
such  a  freshness  of  inspiration,  such  a  strongly  individual  note,  or 
been  more  alive  with  undoubtable  promise." 

The  Daily  Chronicle : — "  All  his  poems  are  like  this,  from  begin 
ning  to  end,  and  in  every  way,  his  own,  and  in  a  world  of  his  own. 
For  brusque  intensity  of  effect  we  can  hardly  compare  them  to  any 
other  work.  It  is  the  old  miracle  that  cannot  be  defined,  nothing 
more  than  a  subtle  entanglement  of  words,  so  that  they  rise  out 
of  their  graves  and  sing." 

From  a  3^  page  detailed  critique,  by  Mr.  Edward  Thomas,  in 
The  English  Review-.— "He  has  .  .  .  hardly  any  of  the  superficial 
good  qualities  of  modern  versifiers ;  .  .  .  He  has  not  the  current 
melancholy  or  resignation  or  unwillingness  to  live ;  nor  the  kind 
of  feeling  for  nature  that  runs  to  minute  description  and  decorative 
metaphor.  He  cannot  be  usefully  compared  with  any  living  writers ; 
.  .  .  full  of  personality  and  with  such  power  to  express  it,  that  from 
the  first  to  the  last  lines  of  most  of  his  poems  he  holds  us  steadily 
in  his  own  pure,  grave,  passionate  world.  .  .  .  The  beauty  of  it 
('In  praise  of  Ysolt')  is  the  beauty  of  passion,  sincerity  and  in 
tensity,  not  of  beautiful  words  and  images  and  suggestions ;  ,  .  . 
the  thought  dominates  the  words  and  is  greater  than  they  are. 
Here  ('  Idyl  for  Glaucus')  the  effect  is  full  of  human  passion  and 
natural  magic,  without  any  of  the  phrases  which  a  reader  of  modern 
verse  would  expect  in  the  treatment  of  such  a  subject.  This  admir 
able  poet.  .  .  . 

The  Oxford  Magazine:— ''This  is  a  most  exciting  book  of 
poems." 


The  Evening  Standard:—  "A  queer  little  book  which  will  irritate 
many  readers." 

The  Morning  Post; — "Mr.  Ezra  Pound  .  .  .  immediately  com 
pels  our  admiration  by  his  fearlessness  and  lack  of  self-conscious 
ness." 

The  Isis  (Oxford) :— "  This  book  has  about  it  the  breath  of  the 
open  air,  .  .  .  physically  and  intellectually  the  verse  seems  to 
reproduce  the  personality  with  a  brief  fulness  and  adequacy.  It  is 
only  in  flexible,  lithe  measures,  such  as  those  which  Coventry 
Patmore  chose  in  his  '  Unknown  Eros,'  and  Mr.  Pound  chooses 
here  that  a  fully  suitable  form  for  the  recital  of  spiritual  experience 
is  to  be  found.  Mr.  Pound  has  a  true  and  invariable  feeling  for  the 
measures  he  employs  .  .  .  this  wonderful  little  book.  ..." 

The  Daily  Telegraph :—"  A  poet  with  individuality.  .  .  .  Thread 
of  true  beauty.  .  .  .  lifts  it  out  of  the  ruck  of  those  many  volumes, 
the  writers  of  which  toe  the  line  of  poetic  convention,  and  please 
for  no  more  than  a  single  reading." 

Mr.  Punch,  concerning  a  certain  Mr.  Ezekiel  Ton : — "  By  far  the 
newest  poet  going,  whatever  other  advertisements  may_  say ; "  and 
announced  as  "the  most  remarkable  thing  in  poetry  since  Robert 
Browning,"  says : — "  He  has  succeeded  where  all  others  have 
failed,  in  evolving  a  blend  of  the  imagery  of  the  unfettered  west, 
the  vocabulary  of  Wardour  Street,  and  the  sinister  abandon  of 
Borgaic  Italy." 

Mr.  Scott-James,  in  The  Daily  News :— "  At  first  the  whole  thing 
may  seem  to  be  mere  madness  and  rhetoric,  a  vain  exhibition  of 
force  and  passion  without  beauty.  But,  as  we  read  on,  these 
curious  metres  of  his  seem  to  have  a  law  and  order  ot  their  own ; 
the  brute  force  of  Mr.  Pound's  imagination  seems  to  impart  some 
quality  of  infectious  beauty  to  his  words.  .  .  .  With  Mr.  Pound 
there  is  no  eking  out  of  thin  sentiment  with  a  melody  or  a  song. 
He  writes  out  of  an  exuberance  of  incontinently  struggling  ideas 
and  passionate  convictions.  .  .  .  He  plunges  straight  into  the  heart 
of  his  theme,  and  suggests  virility  in  action  combined  with  fierce 
ness,  eagerness,  and  tenderness.  ...  he  has  individuality,  passion, 
force,  and  an  acquaintance  with  things  that  are  profoundly  mov 
ing."  Mr.  Scott-James  begins  his  half-column  review  of  Mr. 
Pound's  book  with  a  remark  that  he  would  "Like  much  more 
space  in  which  to  discuss  his  work,"  and  also  notes  a  certain  use 
of  spondee  and  dactyl  which  "Comes  in  strangely  and,  as  we  first 
read  it,  with  the  appearance  of  discord,  but  afterwards  seems  to 
gain  a  curious  and  distinctive  vigour." 


LONDON  :  ELKIN  MATHEWS,  VIGO  STREET,  W. 


The  longest  Series  of  Original  Contemporary 
Verse  in  existence 

List  of  the  "  Vigo  Cabinet" 
and  the  "Satchel"  Series 


LONDON:  ELKIN  MATHEWS,  VIGO  STREET,  W. 


The  Vigo  Cabinet  Series 

An  Occasional  Miscellany  of 
Prose  and  Verse 

Royal  i6mo.    One  shilling  net  each  Part 

No.    i.   THE    QUEEN'S    HIGHWAY.      By    CANON 

SKRINE. 

No.    3.   SILENCE  ABSOLUTE.     By  F.  E.  WALROND. 

No.    6.    THE  CYNIC'S  BREVIARY.    Maxims  and  Anec 
dotes  from  NICHOLAS  DE  CHAMFORT. 

*No.    7.   URLYN  THE  HARPER,  AND  OTHER  SONG. 
By  WILFRID  WILSON  GIBSON. 

[Second  Edition. 

No.    8.    IBSEN'S  (HENRIK)  LYRICAL  POEMS.     Se 
lected  and  Translated  by  R.  A.  STREATFEILD. 

*No.    9.   THE  QUEEN'S  VIGIL,  AND  OTHER  SONG. 

By  WILFRID  WILSON  GIBSON. 

[Second  Edition. 

No.  10.   THE  BURDEN   OF  LOVE.     By  ELIZABETH 
GIBSON. 

No.  11.   THE  COMPANY  OF  HEAVEN.  By  E.  MOORE. 
No.  12.    VERSES.     By  E.  H.  LACON  WATSON. 
*No.  13.   BALLADS.     By  JOHN  MASEFIELD. 

No.  15.  DANTESQUES.      By    GEORGE    A.    GREENE, 

Litt.D. 
No.  16.    THE   LADY  OF  THE  SCARLET   SHOES, 

AND  OTHER  VERSES.     By  Lady  ALIX 

EGERTON. 
*No.  17.   THE  TABLES  OF  THE  LAW,  AND  THE 

ADORATION  OF  THE  MAGI.     By  W.  B. 

YEATS. 


No.  18.  STANDARDS  OF  TASTE  IN  ART.  By 
E.  S.  P.  HAYNES,  late  Scholar  of  Balliol 
College,  Oxford. 

No.  19.   FROM  A  CLOISTER.   By  ELIZABETH  GIBSON. 
No.  20.   SONGS  AND  SONNETS.     By  EVA  DOBELL. 

No.  22.  A  FLOCK  OF  DREAMS.  By  ELIZABETH 
GIBSON. 

No.  23.    SOUNDS    AND    SWEET    AIRS.      By    JOHN 

TODHUNTER. 

No.  24.    THE    SHADOW    OF    THE    GLEN,    AND 

RIDERS  TO  THE  SEA.     By  J.  M.  SYNGE. 

[Second  Edition. 

No.  25.    LOVE'S  FUGITIVES.    By  ELIZABETH  GIBSON. 

No.  26.  AN  AUTUMN  ROMANCE,  AND  OTHER 
POEMS.  By  ALICE  MADDOCK. 

No.  27.  THE  TRAGEDY  OF  ASGARD.  By  VICTOR 
PLARR. 

No.  28.  THE  NETS  OF  LOVE.  By  WILFRID  WILSON 
GIBSON. 

*No.  29.    POEMS  IN  PROSE.     From  CHARLES  BAUDE 
LAIRE.     Translated  by  ARTHUR  SYMONS. 

No.  30.  SEA  DANGER,  AND  OTHER  POEMS.  By 
R.  G.  KEATINGE. 

No.  31.    SHADOWS.     By  ELIZABETH  GIBSON. 

No.  32.   AN  HOUR  OF  REVERIE.     By  F.  P.  STURM. 

No.  33.    POEMS  BY  AURELIAN. 

*No.  34.    SELECTIONS  FROM  LIONEL  JOHNSON'S 
POETRY. 

No.  35.   WHISPER  !    By  FRANCES  WYNNE. 

No.  36.  THE  TENT  BY  THE  LAKE.  By  FRED. 
G.  BOWLES. 

No.  38.   THE  GATES  OF  SLEEP.     By  J.  G.  FAIRFAX. 


THE  VIGO  CABINET  SERIES — continued. 

No.  39.  THE  LADY  BEAUTIFUL.  By  FRANCIS 
ERNLEY  WALROND. 

No.  40.  A  WINDOW  IN  WHITECHAPEL.  By  ISABEL 
CLARKE. 

No.  41.   POEMS  AND  TRANSLATIONS.     By  ARUN- 

DELL  ESDAILE. 

No.  42.  RAINBOWS  AND  WITCHES.  By  WILL  H. 
OGILVIE.  [Third  Thousand. 

No.  43.   STRAY  SONNETS.    By  LILIAN  STREET. 

No.  44.  THE  HEART  OF  THE  WIND.  By  RUTH 
YOUNG. 

No.  45.   THE  BRIDGE  OF  FIRE.   By  JAMES  FLECKER. 

No.  46.  SYLVIA'S  ROSE  AND  THE  MAY  MOON. 
By  GILBERT  HUDSON. 

No.  47.  THE  KNOCKING  AT  THE  DOOR,  AND 
OTHER  POEMS.  By  ALICE  MADDOCK. 

No.  48.  COZDMON'S  ANGEL,  AND  OTHER  POEMS. 
By  KATHARINE  ALICE  MURDOCH. 

No.  49.   FRIENDSHIP.    By  LILIAN  STREET. 

*No.  50.  CHRISTMAS  SONGS  AND  CAROLS.  By 
AGNES  H.  BEGBIE  ;  with  seven  illustrations 
by  EDITH  CALVERT. 

No.  51.  A  CHRISTMAS  MORALITY  PLAY  FOR 
CHILDREN.  By  the  Hon.  Mrs.  ALFRED 
LYTTELTON. 

No.  52.  DAY  DREAMS  OF  GREECE.  By  CHARLES 
W.  STORK. 

*No.  53.  THE  QUATRAINS  OF  OMAR  KHAYYAM. 
From  a  Literal  Prose  Translation  by  EDWARD 
HERON-ALLEN.  Done  into  English  Verse  by 
ARTHUR  B.  TALBOT. 


No.  54.  VOX  OTIOSI.    By  DAVID  PLINLIMMON. 
*No.  55.   RIVER  MUSIC  AND  OTHER  POEMS.     By 

W.  R.  TlTTERTON. 

No.  56.    VANDERDECKEN  AND  OTHER  PIECES. 
By  GILBERT  HUDSON. 

No.  57.    THE   PHILANTHROPISTS    AND    OTHER 
POEMS.     By  RUTH  YOUNG. 

*No.  58.   GERMAN  LYRISTS  OF  TO-DAY.    By  DAISY 
BROICHER. 

*No.  59.  PHANTASIES.  By  GERTRUDE  H.  WITHERBY. 
No.  60.  THREE  POEMS.  By  CHARLES  F.  GRINDROD. 
No.  61.  VERSE  PICTURES.  By  E.  HERRICK. 

No.  62.    RHYMES     IN    A     GARDEN.       By    B.    G. 
BALFOUR. 

No.  63.    RUPERT,    AND    OTHER    DREAMS.      By 
LILIAN  STREET. 

No.  64.   SONGS  AND  SONNETS.     By  L.  PEARSALL 
SMITH. 

No.  65.  EXTANT  POEMS  OF  SAPPHO.     By  PERCY 

OSBORN. 

No.  66.    BAUDELAIRE :    The  Flowers   of  Evil,  trans 
lated  into  English  Verse  by  CYRIL  SCOTT. 

No.  67.   VANITIES.    By  Ff.  A.  WOLFE. 

No.  68.   THE  FAIRY  RING  :  A  Children's  Play  in  Four 
Acts.    By  GERTRUDE  H.  WITHERBY. 

*Also  to  le  had  in  doth,  is.  6d.  net. 
%*  Other  Volumes  in  preparation. 


The  Satchel  Series 

Fcap.  8vo,ctotht  is.  6d.  net /  wrapper,  is.  net 

THE  VISION.  (Studies  of  Mysticism.)  By 
MRS.  HAMILTON  SYNGE.  With  a  Photogravure  after 
a  Picture  by  G.  F.  WATTS,  R.A. 

CONTENTS:  The  Vision,  Mysticism,  The  Inward  Life,  The  Sub 
conscious  Mind,  One  in  Many,  The  Ray  of  Light. 

AIRY  NOTHINGS:  Humorous  Verse.  By  JESSIE 
POPE,  Author  of  "Paper  Pellets." 

EARLY  VICTORIAN  AND  OTHER  PAPERS. 

By  E.  S.  P.  HAYNES,  late  Scholar  of  Balliol  College, 

Oxford. 

"The  author  of  this  book  first  attracted  our  attention  by  his 
'  Standards  of  Taste  in  Art '  some  few  years  ago.  It  was  a  brief  but 
suggestive  essay  by  one  who  was  obviously  that  rare  bird,  a  keen  and 
disinterested  lover  of  literature.  Detachment  from  purely  literary  ideals 
added  a  charm  to  the  book.  In  these  new  essays  this  detachment  is 
even  more  definite.  Several  of  the  papers  would  have  a  peculiar  interest 
from  their  subject  alone,  one  study  reveals  some  nineteenth-century 
characteristic  in  a  manner  beyond  the  reach  of  any  but  Samuel  Butler's 
irony." — Bookman. 

SONGS  OF  GOOD  FIGHTING.  By  EUGENE 
R.  WHITE.  With  a  Prefatory  Memoir  by  HARRY 
PERSONS  TABER. 

"A  book  of  stirring  verse.  .  .  .  The  most  remarkable  piece  in  the 
volume  is  the  '  Festin  d'Adieu,'  a  short  story,  which  is  surely  one  of  the 
half-dozen  finest  stories  ever  written."—  The  Bibliophile. 

THE  SHADOW  SHOW.  By  A.  ST.  JOHN  ADCOCK. 
With  Frontispiece  by  STARR  WOOD. 

"The  deftest  and  lightest  of  light  verse.  .  .  .  Mr.  Adcock  shows 
himself  very  nearly  the  equal  of  Hood." — Morning  Leader. 

THE  FANCY:  a  Selection  from  the  Poetical 
Remains  of  the  late  PETER  CORCORAN  (z.^.,  JOHN 
HAMILTON  REYNOLDS,  the  friend  of  JOHN  KEATS).  A 
verbatim  Reprint,  with  Prefatory  Memoir  and  Notes  by 
JOHN  MASEFIELD,  and  13  Illustrations  by  JACK  B. 
YEATS. 

"Humorous,  and  full  of  a  mischievous  topical  fun  .  .  .  delightfully 
illustrated  by  Mr.  Jack  Yeats."— Manchester  Guardian. 


PAPER  PELLETS:  Humorous  Verse.  By  JESSIE 
POPE.  Fcap.  8vo,  cloth,  is.  6d.  net ;  wrapper,  is.  net. 

"  Mr.  Punch,  who  has  enjoyed  an  intimate  observation  of  her  talent, 
ventures  to  give  a  guardian's  blessing." — Punch. 

"It  is  all  bright  and  merry  and  sparkling  ...  a  really  witty  little 
book." — Vanity  Fair. 

"Miss  Pope  has  a  dainty  touch,  and  can  prick  a  bubble  in  the 
kindest  manner  in  the  world  .  .  .  shows  great  promise  of  literary  dis 
tinction." —  World. 

A  MAINSAIL  HAUL.  (Nautical  Yarns).  By 
JOHN  MASEFIELD.  With  Frontispiece  by  JACK  B. 
YEATS. 

"  Mr.  Masefield  has  the  true  spirit  of  the  ancient  childhood  of  the 
earth.  He  has  the  real  spirit  of  the  poets,  and  he  has  it  precisely  in 
that  particular  in  which  the  poets  and  the  tellers  of  fairy  tales  most 
seriously  and  most  decisively  differ  from  the  realists  of  our  own  day. 
Mr.  Masefield  tells  a  story  that  is  in  itself  strange,  or  splendid,  or  even 
supernatural,  but  tells  it  in  the  common,  graphic  language  of  life." — 
Mr.  G.  K.  CHESTERTON,  in  Daily  News. 

ADMISSIONS  AND  ASIDES.  Essays  Literary 
and  Social.  By  A.  ST.  JOHN  ADCOCK. 

"A  series  of  inspiring  reflections  on  events  that  occur  continually 
around  us,  and  bears  marks  of  that  incisive  spirit  of  introspection  which 
has  characterized  this  writer's  work." — London  Opinion. 

"The  work  of  an  essayist  with  the  charm  of  a  poet  and  the  wit  and 
sense  of  a  delightful  prose  writer." — Academy. 

LONDON  ETCHINGS.  By  A.  ST.  JOHN  ADCOCK. 

"The  most  delicate  and  finished  prose  work  that  has  so  far  come 
from  this  popular  author's  pen." — Sunday  Times. 

"  We  welcome  the  frank  slightness  of  these  sketches.  It  is  part  of  a 
recognition  that  the  how  is  more  than  the  how  tmtch,  which  is  new  in 
English  literary  art.  ...  As  slight  and  clever  fragments  of  observation 
'  London  Etchings '  are  well  done." — Athen&um. 

THE  VIEWS  OF  CHRISTOPHER.  With  a 
Preface  by  COULSON  KERNAHAN.  [Second  Edition. 

"Wholesome,  vehement,  exacting  criticism  of  men  and  manners  in 
general  is  set  down  in  this  dainty  book  with  the  frankness,  gravity,  and 
finality  of  the  philosophy  of  eager  youth.  ...  It  may  frankly  be 
commended  virginibus  puerisque  and  to  the  elders.  A  good  book." — 
The  Month. 


LONDON 

ELKIN  MATHEWS 
VIGO  STREET,  W. 


PS  35~3  JL 


Tr.vfS