Ezra Pound Quotes - Page 9

And in the mean time my songs will travel, And the devirginated young ladies will enjoy them when they have got over the strangeness

Yet the companions of the Muses will keep their collective nose in my books And weary with historical data, they will turn to my dance tune.

There is no topicmore soporific and generally boring than the topic of Ireland as Ireland, as a nation.

Quiet this metal! Let the manes put off their terror, let them put off their aqueous bodies with fire. Let them assume the milk-white bodies of agate. Let them draw together the bones of the metal.

I ask a wreathwhich will not crush my head. And there is no hurry about it; I shall have, doubtless, a boom after my funeral, Seeing that long standing increases all things regardless of quality.

The age demanded an image Of its accelerated grimace, Something for the modern stage, Not, at any rate, an Attic grace.

Sumer is icumen in, Lhude sing cucc. Groweth sed, and bloweth med, And springth the wude nu, Sing cuccu!

I have tried to write Paradise Do not move Let the wind speak that is paradise. Let the Gods forgive what I have made Let those I love try to forgive what I have made.

Technique is the test of sincerity. If a thing isn't worth getting the technique to say, it is of inferior value.

Artists are the antennae of the race, but the bullet-headed many will never learn to trust the great artists.

The Garden En robe de parade. - Samain Like a skein of loose silk blown against a wall She walks by the railing of a path in Kensington Gardens, And she is dying piece-meal of a sort of emotional anaemia. And round about there is a rabble Of the filthy, sturdy, unkillable infants of the very poor. They shall inherit the earth. In her is the end of breeding. Her boredom is exquisite and excessive. She would like some one to speak to her, And is almost afraid that I will commit that indiscretion.

As a bathtub lined with white porcelain, When the hot water gives out or goes tepid, So is the slow cooling of our chivalrous passion, O my much praised but-not-altogether-satisfactory lady.

Gloom and solemnity are entirely out of place in even the most rigorous study of an art originally intended to make glad the heart of man.

Haie! Haie! These were the swift to harry; These the keen-scented; These were the souls of blood. Slow on the leash, pallid the leash-men!

You have been second always. Tragical? No. You preferred it to the usual thing: One dull man, dulling and uxorious, One average mind- with one thought less, each year.

'Tis the white stag, Fame, we're a-hunting, bid the world's hounds come to horn!