Grief with a glass that ran--

of Swinburne, or the mossiness of Mallarme, Pound's verse is
always definite and concrete, because he has always a definite
emotion behind it.

Though I've roamed through many places,
None there is that my heart troweth
Fair as that wherein fair groweth
One whose laud here interlaces
Tuneful words, that I've essayed.
Let this tune be gently played
Which my voice herward upraises.

At the end of this poem the author appends the note:

The form and measure are those of Piere Vidal's "_Ab
l'alen tir vas me l'aire_." The song is fit only to be
sung, and is not to be spoken.

There are, here and there, deliberate archaisms or oddities
(e.g., "herward"); there are deliberately arbitrary images,
having their place in the total effect of the poem:


Red leaf that art blown upward and out and over
The green sheaf of the world ...

The lotos that pours
Her fragrance into the purple cup ...