pound-blandula

What hast thou, O my soul, with paradise?
Will we not rather, when our freedom’s won,
Get us to some clear place wherein the sun
Lets drift in on us through the olive leaves
A liquid glory?

Thought:

“Bidding us twain upon thy glory call.
Harsh light hath rent from us the golden pall
Of that frail sleep, His first light seigniory,
And we are come through all the modes that fall
Unto their lot who meet him constantly.”

Ezra Pound | “To Guido Cavalcanti”

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