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FOR EZRA POUND
IL MIGLIOR FABBRO
I. The Burial of the Dead
April is the cruellest month, breeding

A beast stands at my eye
I cook my senses in a dark fire
The old wombs rot and the new
Approaches with the footsteps of a world

From breakfast on through all the day At home among my friends I stay, But every night I go abroad Afar into the land of Nod
All by myself I have to go, With none to tell me what to do — All alone beside the streams And up the mountain-sides ...

Awake, awake, my little boy
Thou wast thy mother's only joy;
Why dost thou weep in thy gentle sleep
Awake

In the land of the Bumbley
The People are red white and blue,
They never blow noses,
Or ever wear closes,

Over hill, over dale,
Thorough bush, thorough brier,
Over park, over pale,
Thorough flood, thorough fire,

Where the bee sucks, there suck I:
In a cowslip's bell I lie;
There I couch when owls do cry
On the bat's back I do fly After summer merrily:

Full fathom five thy father lies;
Of his bones are coral made;
Those are pearls that were his eyes:
Nothing of him that doth fade,

You spotted snakes with double tongue,
Thorny hedgehogs, be not seen;
Newts and blind-worms, do no wrong;
Come not near our fairy queen

ED
OM
HE
AN OF

Come, cuddle your head on my shoulder, dear,
Your head like the golden-rod,
And we will go sailing away from
To the beautiful Land of Nod

Although this land is not my own,
I will remember its inland sea and the waters that are so cold the sand as white as old bones, the pine trees strangely red where the sun comes down
I cannot say if it is our love, or the day, that is en...