Oh, to be written about with such affection!

I know they were merely friends, but still…

Unpublished poem by Ezra Pound

“If poets whom you know are not all fools,
Methinks my songs but march amid the rout.
Unless ice burns and burning fire cools
No bard could look on you and not speak out.
It can not be that I monopolize
The making of the songs that give you praise
Or that such pools as are your dearest eyes
Have just one bather through the [unclear] days.
Then, let me take my place amid the pack,
If I so pack my songs with your rare worth
There were no quality they then should lack
But they were bettered by that happy death.
Thus all my days were coined of richest pleasure,
And no dark thought should soil my sunny leisure.”

Read more about the sale of this unknown poem here.

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