Sunday, December 1, 2013


Soon will the harsh time break on us, the north wind hoot in the branches which all swish together with their closed-over boughs of leaves;  no bird sings nor ‘peeps’ now, yet love teaches me to make a song that shall not be second nor third, but first for freeing the embittered heart.

Love is the garden-close of worth, a pool of prowess (i.e., low flooded land) whence all good fruits are born if there be one to gather them faithfully; for not one does ice or snow destroy while the good trunk nourisheth them; but, if knave or coward break it, the sap is lost between the loyal.

Ezra Pound, sections I and II from En Brau Brisaral Temps Braus (trans. of Arnaut Daniel) from I Gather The Limbs of Osiris (1911-12)

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