The rugged black of anger Has an uncertain smile-border. The transition from one kind to another May be love between neighbour and neighbour; Or natural death; or discontinuance Because so small is space, The extent of kind must be expressed otherwise; Or loss of kind when proof of no uniqueness Strikes the broadening edge and discourages. Therefore and therefore all things have experience Of ending and of meeting, And of ending, that much being As grows faint of self and withers When more is the intenser self That is another or nothing. And therefore smiles, when least smiling-- The gift of nature to necessity When relenting grows involuntary. The reaction, then, will be either one of ‘blank incomprehension’ or, since the critic-reader recognizes a few long words and a certain atmosphere created by the poet’s ‘saying what he means’, one of antagonism due to the impression that the poem gives of being didactic. The reaction of blank incomprehension will be commonest. “What, in so many words”, the critic-reader will ask, “is this all about?” Now, to tell what a poem is all about in “so many words” is to reduce the poem to so many words, to leave out all that the reader cannot at the moment understand in order to give him the satisfaction of feeling that he is understanding it. If it were possible to give the complete force of a poem in a prose summary, then there would be no excuse for writing the poem: the ‘so many words’ are, to the last punctuation-mark, the poem itself. Where such a prose summary does render the poem in its entirety, except for rhymes and other external dressings, the poem cannot have been a complete one; and indeed a great deal of what passes for poetry is the rewriting of the prose summary of a hypothetical poem in poetical language. Before further discussing this particular poem, let us quote the beginning of a ballad by Mr. Ezra Pound in illustration of the prose-idea poeticalized: THE BALLAD OF THE GOODLY FERE[1] (_Simon Zelotes speaketh it somewhile after the Crucifixion_) Ha’ we lost the goodliest fere o’ all For the priests and the gallows tree? Aye, lover he was of brawny men O’ ships and the open sea. When they came wi’ a host to take Our Man His smile was good to see, “First let these go!” quo’ our Goodly Fere, “Or I’ll see ye damned”, says he. Aye, he sent us out through the crossed high spears, And the scorn of his laugh rang free, “Why took ye not me when I walked about Alone in the town?” says he. Oh, we drank his “Hale” in the good red wine When we last made company, No capon priest was the Goodly Fere But a man o’ men was he. I ha’ seen him drive a hundred men Wi’ a bundle o’ cords swung free When they took the high and holy house For their pawn and treasury....