Harriet Monroe, ed. (1860–1936). The New Poetry: An Anthology. 1917.
XeniaEzra Pound
O
There came an ugly little man
Carrying beautiful flowers.
For they are cool with sympathy,
There is nothing of fever about them.
For I think the glass is evil.
With a silver crashing,
A thin war of metal.
I have seen it melting above me.
I have known the stone-bright place,
The hall of clear colors.
O light bound and bent in, O soul of the captive,
Why am I warned? Why am I sent away?
Why is your glitter full of curious mistrust?
O glass subtle and cunning, O powdery gold!
O filaments of amber, two-faced iridescence!
Move among the lovers of perfection alone.
Seek ever to stand in the hard Sophoclean light
And take your wounds from it gladly.
How many will come after me
singing as well as I sing, none better;
Telling the heart of their truth
as I have taught them to tell it;
Fruit of my seed,
O my unnamable children.
Clear speakers, naked in the sun, untrammelled.