And if when I am dead They take the trouble to tear out this wall here, They'll know more of Arnaut of Marvoil Than half his canzoni say of him. As for will and testament I leave none, Save this: "Vers and canzone to the Countess of Beziers In return for the first kiss she gave me." May her eyes and her cheek be fair To all men except the King of Aragon, And may I come speedily to Beziers Whither my desire and my dream have preceded me. O hole in the wall here! be thou my jongleur As ne'er had I other, and when the wind blows, Sing thou the grace of the Lady of Beziers, For even as thou art hollow before I fill thee with this parchment, So is my heart hollow when she filleth not mine eyes, And so were my mind hollow, did she not fill utterly my thought. Wherefore, O hole in the wall here, When the wind blows sigh thou for my sorrow That I have not the Countess of Beziers Close in my arms here. Even as thou shalt soon have this parchment. O hole in the wall here, be thou my jongleur, And though thou sighest my sorrow in the wind, Keep yet my secret in thy breast here; Even as I keep her image in my heart here. _Mihi pergamena deest._ Revolt Against the crepuscular spirit in modern poetry I would shake off the lethargy of this our time, and give For shadows--shapes of power For dreams--men. "It is better to dream than do"? Aye! and, No! Aye! if we dream great deeds, strong men, Hearts hot, thoughts mighty. No! if we dream pale flowers, Slow-moving pageantry of hours that languidly Drop as o'er-ripened fruit from sallow trees. If so we live and die not life but dreams, Great God, grant life in dreams, Not dalliance, but life! Let us be men that dream, Not cowards, dabblers, waiters For dead Time to reawaken and grant balm For ills unnamed. Great God, if we be damn'd to be not men but only dreams, Then let us be such dreams the world shall tremble at And know we be its rulers though but dreams! Then let us be such shadows as the world shall tremble at And know we be its masters though but shadow! Great God, if men are grown but pale sick phantoms That must live only in these mists and tempered lights And tremble for dim hours that knock o'er loud Or tread too violent in passing them; Great God, if these thy sons are grown such thin ephemera, I bid thee grapple chaos and beget Some new titanic spawn to pile the hills and stir This earth again. And Thus in Nineveh "Aye! I am a poet and upon my tomb Shall maidens scatter rose leaves And men myrtles, ere the night Slays day with her dark sword.