Sliced in two like a flatfish, each of us is perpetually hunting for the matching half of himself.
Sliced in two like a flatfish, each of us is perpetually hunting for the matching half of himself.
“Who is she coming, that the roses bend
Their shameless heads to do her passing honour?
Who is she coming with a light upon her
Not born of suns that with the day’s end end?
Say is it Love who hath chosen the nobler part?
Say is it Love, that was divinity,
Who hath left his godhead that his home might be
The shameless rose of her unclouded heart?
If this be Love, where hath he won such grace?
If this be Love, how is the evil wrought,
That all men write against his darkened name?
If this be Love, if this …
O mind give place!
What holy mystery e’er was noosed in thought?
Own that thou scan’st her not, nor count it shame!”
Ezra Pound | “Chi È Questa?”