I do not choose to dream; there cometh on me
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 namy 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 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.
***
Ezra Weston Loomis Pound (30 October 1885 – 1 November 1972) is one of the most influential but also difficult poets of the 20th century. He was the man of exceptional intellectual brilliance, erudition and courage. An American patriot, unhappy about the takeover of the United States by Jewish political and financial interests, the takeover that he anticipated, and which is by now all but complete, a true friend of Europe, an enlightened lover of shared cultural heritage, artistic revolutionary, participant of many important literary movements.