Ezra Pound - Canto VII lyrics

Eleanor (she spoiled in a British climate) 'Ελανδρος and Ελέπτολις, and 
poor old Homer blind,
 blind as a bat, Ear, ear for the sea-surge—;
 rattle of old men's voices. And then the phantom Rome, 
marble narrow for seats "Si pulvis nullus…" In chatter above the circus, "Nullum excute tamen." Then: file and candles, e li mestiers ecoutes; Scene – for the battle only, –but still scene, Pennons and standards y cavals armatz Not mere succession of strokes, sightless narration, And Dante's "ciocco," brand struck in the game. Un peu moisi, plancher plus bas que le jardin. Contre le lambris, fauteuil de paille, Un vieux piano, et sous le barometer… The old men's voices—beneath the columns of false marble, And the walls tinted discreet, the modish, darkish green-blue, Discreeter gilding, and the panelled wood Not present, but suggested, for the leasehold is Touched with an imprecision… about three squares; The house a shade too solid, the paintings
 a shade too thick. And the great domed head, con gli occhi onesti e tardi Moves before me, phantom with weighted motion, Grave incessu, drinking the tone of things, And the old voice lifts itself weaving an endless sentence. We also made ghostly visits, and the stair That knew us, found us again on the turn of it, Knocking at empty rooms, seeking a buried beauty; And the sun-tanned gracious and well-formed fingers Lift no latch of bent bronze, no Empire handle Twists for the knocker's fall; no voice to answer. A strange concierge, in place of the gouty-footed. Sceptic against all this one seeks the living, Stubborn against the fact. The wilted flowers Brushed out a seven year since, of no effect. Damn the partition! Paper, dark brown and stretched, Flimsy and damned partition. Ione, dead the long year, My lintel, and Liu Ch'e's lintel. Time blacked out with rubber. The Elysée carries a name on And the bus behind me gives me a date for peg; Low ceiling and the Erard and silver These are in "time." Four chairs, the bow-front dresser, The pannier of the desk, cloth top sunk in. "Beer-bottle on the statue's pediment! "That, Fritz, is the era, to-day against the past, "Contemporary." And the pa**ion endures. Against their action, aromas; rooms, against chronicles. Smargagdos, chrysolitos; De Gama wore striped pants in Africa And "Mountains of the sea gave birth to troops," Le vieux commode an acajou; Beer bottles of various strata. But is she as dead as Tyro? In seven years? Eλeνaus, eλανδρος and eλέπτολις, The sea runs in the beach-groove, shaking the floated pebbles, Eleanor! The scarlet curtain throws a less scarlet shadow; Lamplight at Buovilla, e quel remir, And all that day Nicea moved before me And the cold gray troubled her not For all her naked beauty, but no the tropic skin, And the long slender feet lit on the curb's marge And her moving height went before me, We alone having being. And all that day, another day: Thin husks I had known as men, Dry casques of departed locusts speaking a shell of speech… Propped between chairs and table… Words like the locust-shells, moved by no inner being, A dryness calling for d**h. Another day, between walls of a sham Mycenian, "Toc" sphinxes, sham-Memphis columns, And beneath the jazz a cortex, a stiffness or stillness, The older shell, varnished to lemon colour, Brown-yellow wood, and the no colour plaster, Dry professorial talk… Now stilling the ill beat music, House expulsed by this house, but not extinguished. Square even shoulders and the satin skin, Gone cheeks of the dancing woman, Still the old dead dry talk, ga**ed out It is ten years gone, makes stiff about her a gla**, A petrification of air. The old room of the tawdry cla** a**erts itself. The yound men, never! Only the husk of talk. O voi che siete in piccioletta barca, Dido choked up with sobs for her Sicheus Lies heavy in my arms, dead weight Drowning with tears, new Eros, And the life goes on, mooning upon bare hills; Flame leaps from the hand, the rain is listless, Yet drinks the thirst from our lips, solid as echo, Pa**ion to breed a form in shimmer of rain-blur; But Eros drowned, drowned, heavy-half dead with tears For dead Sicheus. Life to make mock of motion: For the husks, before me, move, The words rattle: shells given out by shells. The live man, out of lands and prisons, Shakes the dry pods, Probes for old wills and friendships, and the big locust-casques Bend to the tawdry table, Lift up their spoons to mouths, put forks in cutlets, And make sound like the sound of voices. Lorenzaccio Being more live than they, more full of flames and voices. Ma si morisse! Credesse caduto da se, ma is morisse. And the tall indifference moves, a more living shell, Drift in the air of fate, dry phantom, but intact, O Alessandro, chief and thrice warned, watcher, Eternal watcher of things, Of things, of men, of pa**ions, Eyes floating in dry, dark air; E biondo, with gla**-gray iris, with an even side-fall of hair The stiff, still features.