Aragon cursing in Aragon, Beziers busy at Beziers— Bored to an inch of extinction, Tibors all tongue and temper at Mont-Ausier, Me! in this damn’d inn of Avignon, Stringing long verse for the Burlatz; All for one half-bald, knock-knee’d king of the Aragonese, Alfonso, Quatro, poke-nose. 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 deëst._ [8] See note at end of volume. IN THE OLD AGE OF THE SOUL I do not choose to dream; there cometh on me Some strange old lust for deeds. As to the nerveless hand of some old warrior The sword-hilt or the war-worn wonted helmet Brings momentary life and long-fled cunning, So to my soul grown old— Grown old with many a jousting, many a foray, Grown old with many a hither-coming and hence-going— Till now they send him dreams and no more deed; So doth he flame again with might for action, Forgetful of the council of the elders, Forgetful that who rules doth no more battle, Forgetful that such might no more cleaves to him; So doth he flame again toward valiant doing. 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!