Some may have blamed us that we cease to speak

Of things we spoke of in our verses early,

Saying: a lovely voice is such as such;

Saying: that lady’s eyes were sad last week,

Wherein the world’s whole joy is born and dies;

Saying: she hath this way or that, this much

Of grace, this way or that, this much

Of grace, this little misericorde;

Ask us no further word;

If we were proud, then proud to be so wise

Ask us no more of all the things ye heard;

We may not speak of them, they touch us nearly.

 

 

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Ezra Pound

Poems by Ezra Pound