Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, LANGUE D'OC: DESCANT ON A THEME BY CERCLAMON, by EZRA POUND


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LANGUE D'OC: DESCANT ON A THEME BY CERCLAMON, by             Poem Explanation     Poet Analysis     Poet's Biography
First Line: When the sweet air goes bitter
Last Line: In my ears.


When the sweet air goes bitter,
And the cold birds twitter
Where the leaf falls from the twig,
I sough and sing

that Love goes out
Leaving me no power to hold him.

Of love I have naught
Save trouble and sad thought,
And nothing is grievous
as I desirous,
Wanting only what
No man can get or has got.

With the noblest that stands in men's sight,
If all the world be in despite
I care not a glove.
Where my love is, there is a glitter of sun;
God give me life, and let my course run

'Till I have her I love
To lie with and prove.

I do not live, nor cure me,
Nor feel my ache -- great as it is,
For love will give
me no respite,
Nor do I know when I turn left or right
nor when I go out.

For in her is all my delight
And all that can save me.

I shake and burn and quiver
From love, awake and in swevyn,
Such fear I have she deliver
me not from pain,
Who know not how to ask her;
Who can not.
Two years, three years I seek
And though I fear to speak out,
Still she must know it.

If she won't have me now, Death is my portion,
Would I had died that day
I came into her sway.
God! How softly this kills!
When her love look steals on me.
Killed me she has, I know not how it was,
For I would not look on a woman.

Joy I have none, if she make me not mad
Or set me quiet, or bid me chatter.
Good is it to me if she flout
Or turn me inside out, and about.
My ill doth she turn sweet.

How swift it is.
For I am traist and loose,
I am true, or a liar,
All vile, or all gentle,
Or shaking between,
as she desire,
I, Cerclamon, sorry and glad,
The man whom love had
and has ever;
Alas! who'er it please or pain,
She can me retain.

I am gone from one joy,
From one I loved never so much,
She by one touch
Reft me away;
So doth bewilder me
I can not say my say
nor my desire,
And when she looks on me
It seems to me
I lose all wit and sense.

The noblest girls men love
'Gainst her I prize not as a glove
Worn and old.
Though the whole world run rack
And go dark with cloud,
Light is
Where she stands,
And a clamour loud
in my ears.





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