Au Salon. Ezra Pound

Her grave, sweet laghtiness

Pleaseth me and, in like wise,

her quiet ironies.

Others are beautifull, none more, some less.

I suppose when poetry come down to facts,

When our souls are returned to the gods

and the spheres they belong in,

Here in the every-day when our acts

Rise up and jugde us;

I suppose there are a few dozen verities

That no shift of mood can shake from us

One place where we'd rather have tea

(Thus far hath modernity brought us)

"Tea" (Damn you!)

Have tea, damn the Ceasars,

talk of the latest succes, give wing to some scandal,

Garble a name we detest, and for prejudice?

Set loose the whole consumate pack

to bay like Sir Roger Coverley's

This our reward for our works

sic crescit gloria mundi

Some circle of not more than three

that we prefer to play up to

Some few whom we'd rather please

than hear the whole aegrum vulgus

Splitting its beery jowl

a-meowling our praises.

Some certain peculiar things

cari laresque, penates,

Some certain accustomed forms,

the absolute unimportant.