Mihi
pergamena
deest.
Ezra-Pound-Provenca-English
MARVOIL 1
A POOR clerk I, "Arnaut the less" they call me,
And because I have small mind to Day long, long day cooped on a stool
A-jumbling o' figures for Maitre Jacques Polin, I ha' taken to rambling the South here.
The Vicomte of Beziers 's not such a bad lot.
I made rimes to his lady this three year:
Vers and canzone, till that damn'd son of Aragon, Alfonso the half-bald, took to hanging
His helmet at Beziers.
Then came what might come, to wit: three men and
one woman,
Beziers off at Mont-Ausier, I and his lady Singing the stars in the turrets of Beziers, And one lean Aragonese cursing the seneschal To the end that you see, friends:
Aragon cursing in Aragon, Beziers busy at Beziers Bored to an inch of extinction,
Tibors all tongue and temper at Mont-Ausier, Me! in this damn'd inn of Avignon,
Stringing long verse for the Burlatz;
All for one half-bald, knock-knee'd king of the
Aragonese,
Alfonso, Quatro, poke-nose.
And if when I am dead
They take the trouble to tear out this wall here, They '11 know more of Arnaut of Marvoil Than half his canzoni say of him.
1
See note at end of volume. 26
sit
t
? As for will and testament I leave none,
Save this: "Vers and canzone to the Countess of
Beziers
In return for the first kiss she gave me. "
May her eyes and her cheek be fair
To all men except the King of Aragon,
And may I come speedily to Beziers
Whither my desire and my dream have preceded
me.
O hole in the wall here ! be thou my jongleur As ne'er had I other, and when the wind blows,
Sing thou the grace of the Lady of Beziers,
For even as thou art hollow before I fill thee with
this parchment,
So is my heart hollow when she filleth not mine eyes, And so were my mind hollow, did she not fill utterly
my thought.
Wherefore, O hole in the wall here,
When the wind blows sigh thou for my sorrow That I have not the Countess of Beziers Close in my arms here.
Even as thou shalt soon have this parchment.
O hole in the wall here, be thou my jongleur, And though thou sighest my sorrow in the wind,
Keep yet my secret in thy breast here; Even as I keep her image in my heart here.
Mihi pergamena deest. 27
Marvoil
? IN THE OLD AGE OF THE SOUL
DO not choose to dream; there cometh on me i Some strange old lust for deeds.
As to the nerveless hand of some old warrior The sword-hilt or the war-worn wonted helmet
Brings momentary life and long-fled cunning, So to my soul grown old
Grown old with many a jousting, many a foray, Grown old with many a hither-coming and hence-
going
Till now they send him dreams and no more deed ; So doth he flame again with might for action, Forgetful of the council of the elders,
Forgetful that who rules doth no more battle, Forgetful that such might no more cleaves to him; So doth he flame again toward valiant doing.
REVOLT
AGAINST THE CREPUSCULAR SPIRIT IN MODERN POETRY
WOULD shake off the lethargy of this our time, I and give
For shadows shapes of power, For dreams men.
"It is better to dream than do? "
Aye! and, No!
28
? Aye ! if we dream great deeds, strong men, Revolt Hearts hot, thoughts mighty.
No ! if we dream pale flowers,
Slow-moving pageantry of hours that languidly Drop as o'er-ripened fruit from sallow trees.
If so we live and die not life but dreams,
Great God, grant life in dreams, Not dalliance, but life !
Let us be men that dream,
Not cowards, dabblers, waiters
For dead Time to reawaken and grant balm For ills unnamed.
Great God, if we be damn'd to be not men but only
dreams,
Then tet us be such dreams the world shall tremble
at
And know we be its rulers though but dreams !
A POOR clerk I, "Arnaut the less" they call me,
And because I have small mind to Day long, long day cooped on a stool
A-jumbling o' figures for Maitre Jacques Polin, I ha' taken to rambling the South here.
The Vicomte of Beziers 's not such a bad lot.
I made rimes to his lady this three year:
Vers and canzone, till that damn'd son of Aragon, Alfonso the half-bald, took to hanging
His helmet at Beziers.
Then came what might come, to wit: three men and
one woman,
Beziers off at Mont-Ausier, I and his lady Singing the stars in the turrets of Beziers, And one lean Aragonese cursing the seneschal To the end that you see, friends:
Aragon cursing in Aragon, Beziers busy at Beziers Bored to an inch of extinction,
Tibors all tongue and temper at Mont-Ausier, Me! in this damn'd inn of Avignon,
Stringing long verse for the Burlatz;
All for one half-bald, knock-knee'd king of the
Aragonese,
Alfonso, Quatro, poke-nose.
And if when I am dead
They take the trouble to tear out this wall here, They '11 know more of Arnaut of Marvoil Than half his canzoni say of him.
1
See note at end of volume. 26
sit
t
? As for will and testament I leave none,
Save this: "Vers and canzone to the Countess of
Beziers
In return for the first kiss she gave me. "
May her eyes and her cheek be fair
To all men except the King of Aragon,
And may I come speedily to Beziers
Whither my desire and my dream have preceded
me.
O hole in the wall here ! be thou my jongleur As ne'er had I other, and when the wind blows,
Sing thou the grace of the Lady of Beziers,
For even as thou art hollow before I fill thee with
this parchment,
So is my heart hollow when she filleth not mine eyes, And so were my mind hollow, did she not fill utterly
my thought.
Wherefore, O hole in the wall here,
When the wind blows sigh thou for my sorrow That I have not the Countess of Beziers Close in my arms here.
Even as thou shalt soon have this parchment.
O hole in the wall here, be thou my jongleur, And though thou sighest my sorrow in the wind,
Keep yet my secret in thy breast here; Even as I keep her image in my heart here.
Mihi pergamena deest. 27
Marvoil
? IN THE OLD AGE OF THE SOUL
DO not choose to dream; there cometh on me i Some strange old lust for deeds.
As to the nerveless hand of some old warrior The sword-hilt or the war-worn wonted helmet
Brings momentary life and long-fled cunning, So to my soul grown old
Grown old with many a jousting, many a foray, Grown old with many a hither-coming and hence-
going
Till now they send him dreams and no more deed ; So doth he flame again with might for action, Forgetful of the council of the elders,
Forgetful that who rules doth no more battle, Forgetful that such might no more cleaves to him; So doth he flame again toward valiant doing.
REVOLT
AGAINST THE CREPUSCULAR SPIRIT IN MODERN POETRY
WOULD shake off the lethargy of this our time, I and give
For shadows shapes of power, For dreams men.
"It is better to dream than do? "
Aye! and, No!
28
? Aye ! if we dream great deeds, strong men, Revolt Hearts hot, thoughts mighty.
No ! if we dream pale flowers,
Slow-moving pageantry of hours that languidly Drop as o'er-ripened fruit from sallow trees.
If so we live and die not life but dreams,
Great God, grant life in dreams, Not dalliance, but life !
Let us be men that dream,
Not cowards, dabblers, waiters
For dead Time to reawaken and grant balm For ills unnamed.
Great God, if we be damn'd to be not men but only
dreams,
Then tet us be such dreams the world shall tremble
at
And know we be its rulers though but dreams !
