From Ezra Pound’s Canto LXXXI: What thou lovest well remains


Ere the season died a-cold
Borne upon a zephyr's shoulder
I rose through the aureate sky
               Lawes and Jenkins guard thy rest
               Dolmetsch ever be thy guest,
Has he tempered the viol's wood
To enforce both  the grave  and the acute?
Has he curved us the bowl of the lute?
               Lawes and Jenkins guard thy rest
               Dolmetsch ever be thy guest,
Hast 'ou fashioned so airy a mood
     To draw up leaf from the root?
Hast 'ou found  a cloud  so light
     As seemed neither mist nor shade?

               Then resolve me, tell me aright
               If Waller sang or Dowland played.

          Your eyen two wol sleye me sodenly
          I may the beauté of hem nat susteyene

And for 180 years almost nothing.

Ed ascoltando il leggier mormorio
     there came new subtlety of eyes into my tent,
whether of spirit or hypostasis,
     but what the blindfold hides
or at carneval
                    nor any pair showed anger
     Saw but the eyes and stance between the eyes,
colour, diastasis,
     careless or unaware it had not the
   whole tent's room
nor was place for the full 
interpass, penetrate
     casting but shade beyond the other lights
          sky's clear
          night's sea
          green of the mountain pool
          shone from the unmasked eyes in half-mask's space.
What thou lovest well remains,
                              the rest is dross
What thou lov'st well shall not be reft from thee
What thou lov'st well is thy true heritage
Whose world, or mine or theirs
                         or is it of none?
First came the seen, then thus the palpable
     Elysium, though it were in the halls of hell,
What thou lovest well is thy true heritage
What thou lov'st well shall not be reft from thee

The ant's a centaur in his dragon world.
Pull down thy vanity, it is not man
Made courage, or made order, or made grace,
     Pull down thy vanity, I say pull down.
Learn of the green world what can be thy place
In scaled invention or true artistry,
Pull down thy vanity,
                  Paquin pull down!
The green casque has outdone your elegance.

"Master thyself, then others shall thee beare"
     Pull down thy vanity
Thou art a beaten dog beneath the hail,
A swollen magpie in a fitful sun,
Half black half white
Nor knowst'ou wing from tail
Pull down thy vanity
               How mean thy hates
Fostered in falsity,
               Pull down thy vanity,
Rathe to destroy, niggard in charity,
Pull down thy vanity,
               I say pull down.

But to have done instead of not doing
               This is not vanity
To have, with decency, knocked
That a Blunt should open
          To have gathered from the air a live tradition
or from a fine old eye the unconquered flame
this is not vanity.
     Here error is all in the not done,
all in the diffidence that faltered . . .