Great literature is simply language charged with meaning to the utmost possible degree. - Ezra Pound 1885-1972
TO THE FOUNTAIN
Two roses do I bring to thee,
O fount of love that 'fore me dances.
Thy tears poetic comfort me,
Thy tender voice my soul entrances.
Thou greetest me as I draw near,
My face with silvered dew drops spraying.
Flow, flow, O fount, and, ceaseless playing,
Speak, speak thy story in my ear.
O fount of love, O fount of sadness,
From thy stone lips long tales I heard
Of far-off parts, of woe and gladness,
But of Maria ne'er a word...
Like poor and long forgot Zarema,
Is she, the harem's pallid sun,
Formed of the mists of idle dreaming
And of the stuff of visions spun?
The spirit's dim and vague ideal
Drawn by the hand of phantasy,
Is she a thing remote, unreal,
A phantom that must cease to be?..