martes, 16 de septiembre de 2008

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.

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