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)
