Praise of Ysolt

In vain have I striven,

to teach my heart to bow;

In vain have I said to him

‘There be many singers greater than thou’.

But his answer cometh, as winds and as lutany,

As a vague crying upon the night

That leaveth me no rest, saying ever,

‘Song, a song.’

Their echoes play upon each other in the twilight

Seeking ever a song.

Lo, I am worn with travail

And the wandering of many roads hath made my eyes

As dark red circles filled with dust.

Yet there is a trembling upon me in the twilight,

And little red elf words crying, ‘A song’,

Little grey elf words crying for a song,

Little brown leaf words crying, ‘A song’,

Little green leaf words crying for a song.

The words are as leaves, old brown leaves in the spring time

Blowing they know not whither, seeking a song.

White words as snow flakes but they are cold,

Moss words, lip words, words of slow streams.

In vain have I striven

to teach my soul to bow,

In vain have I pled with him:

‘There be greater souls than thou.’

For in the morn of my years there came a woman

As moonlight calling,

As the moon calleth the tides,

‘Song, a song.’

Wherefore I made her a song and she went from me

As the moon doth from the sea,

But still came the leaf words, little brown elf words

Stying ‘The soul sendeth us’.

‘A song, a song!’

And in vain I cried unto them ‘I have no song

For she I sang of hath gone from me’.

But my soul sent a woman, a woman of the wonder-folk,

A woman as fire upon the pine woods

crying ‘Song, a song’.

As the flame crieth unto the sap.

My song was ablaze with her and she went from me

As flame leaveth the embers so went she unto new forests

And the words were with me

crying ever. ‘Song, a song’.

And I ‘I have no song’,

Till my soul sent a woman as the sun:

Yea as the sun calleth to the seed,

As the spring upon the bough

So is she that cometh, the mother of songs,

She that holdeth the wonder words within her eyes

The words, little elf words

that call ever unto me,

‘Song, a song’.

In vain have I striven with my soul

to teach my soul to bow.

What soul boweth

while in his heart art thou?

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—
Ezra Pound

Personæ, 1926