Harriet Monroe, ed. (1860–1936). The New Poetry: An Anthology. 1917.
From “Near Périgord”
By Ezra Pound
I
And always our two natures were in strife.
Bewildering spring, and by the Auvezère
Poppies and day’s eyes in the green émail
Rose over us; and we knew all that stream,
And our two horses had traced out the valleys;
Knew the low flooded lands squared out with poplars,
In the young days when the deep sky befriended.
And great wings beat above us in the twilight,
And the great wheels in heaven
Bore us together … surging and apart …
Believing we should meet with lips and hands.
“Why do you love me? Will you always love me?
But I am like the grass, I can not love you.”
Or, “Love, and I love and love you,
And hate your mind, not you, your soul, your hands.”
She who had nor ears nor tongue save in her hands,
Gone—ah, gone—untouched, unreachable!
She who could never live save through one person,
She who could never speak save to one person,
And all the rest of her a shifting change,
A broken bundle of mirrors…!