Come my cantilations,
Let us dump our hatreds into one bunch and be done with them,
Hot sun, clear water, fresh wind,
Let me be free of pavements,
Let me be free of the printers.
Let come beautiful people
Wearing raw silk of good colour,
Let come the graceful speakers,
Let come the ready of wit,
Let come the gay of manner, the insolent and the exulting.
We speak of burnished lakes,
Of dry air, as clear as metal.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Pound's greatest achievement during the London years was his engineering of the Imagist movement, an avant-garde push for a poetry of intense precision and condensation, but in most of the Imagist poems Pound writes not of the feeling of camaraderie within that avant-garde movement but about the shallowness of village life and the longing for flesh-shrouded companions. ...