Ezra Pound

Blandula, Tenella, Vagula

What hast thou, my soul, with paradise? Will we not rather, when our freedom's won, Get us to some clear place wherein the sun Lets drift in on us through the olive leaves A liquid glory? If at Sirmio, My soul, I meet thee, when this life's outrun, Will we not find some headland consecrated By aery apostles of terrene delight, Will not our cult be founded on the waves, Clear sapphire, cobalt, cyanine, On triune azures, the impalpable Mirrors unstill of the eternal change ? Soul, if She meet us there, will any rumour Of havens more high and courts desirable Lure us beyond the cloudy peak of Riva ?