“Bah! I have sung women in three cities, But it is all the same; And I will sing of the sun.

Lips, words, and you snare them, Dreams, words, and they are as jewels, Strange spells of old deity, Ravens, nights, allurement: And they are not; Having become the souls of song.

Eyes, dreams, lips, and the night goes. Being upon the road once more, They are not. Forgetful in their towers of our tuneing Once for wind-runeing They dream us-toward and Sighing, say, “Would Cino, Passionate Cino, of the wrinkling eyes, Gay Cino, of quick laughter, Cino, of the dare, the jibe. Frail Cino, strongest of his tribe That tramp old ways beneath the sun-light, Would Cino of the Luth were here!”

Once, twice a year— Vaguely thus word they:

“Cino?” “Oh, eh, Cino Polnesi The singer is’t you mean?” “Ah yes, passed once our way, A saucy fellow, but . . . (Oh they are all one these vagabonds), Peste! ’tis his own songs? Or some other’s that he sings? But *you*, My Lord, how with your city?”

My you “My Lord,” God’s pity! And all I knew were out, My Lord, you Were Lack-land Cino, e’en as I am, O Sinistro.

I have sung women in three cities. But it is all one. I will sing of the sun. . . . eh? . . . they mostly had grey eyes, But it is all one, I will sing of the sun.

“‘Pollo Phoibee, old tin pan, you Glory to Zeus’ aegis-day, Shield o’ steel-blue, th’ heaven o’er us Hath for boss thy lustre gay!

‘Pollo Phoibee, to our way-fare Make thy laugh our wander-lied; Bid thy ‘flugence bear away care. Cloud and rain-tears pass they fleet!

Seeking e’er the new-laid rast-way To the gardens of the sun . . .

I have sung women in three cities But it is all one. I will sing of the white birds In the blue waters of heaven, The clouds that are spray to its sea.”

Ezra Pound