Ezra Pound Poems
|242.||To Êáëüí (Greek Title)||4/1/2010|
|243.||To Whistler, American||4/1/2010|
|244.||To-Em-Meps ‘the Unmoving Cloud'||4/1/2010|
|245.||Translations And Adaptations From Heine||4/1/2010|
|247.||Villanelle: The Psychological Hour||1/1/2004|
|248.||Villonaud For This Yule||1/3/2003|
|249.||Women Before A Shop||4/1/2010|
The tree has entered my hands,
The sap has ascended my arms,
The tree has grown in my breast -
The branches grow out of me, like arms.
Tree you are,
Moss you are,
You are violets with wind above them.
A child - so high - you are,
And all this is folly to the world.
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 athrough 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 Francois Villon, ballad-lord and thief,
Or am such holy ones I may not write
Lest blasphemy be writ against my name;