Wednesday, February 20, 2013

Ezra Pound: Erat Hora

I first read this poem at the right age, a fifteen-year-old boy becoming enamored with amore. Pound was my first poetic father and I'm indebted to him, warts and all.

Erat Hora

“Thank you, whatever comes.” And then she turned
And, as the ray of sun on hanging flowers
Fades when the wind hath lifted them aside,
Went swiftly from me. Nay, whatever comes
One hour was sunlit and the most high gods
May not make boast of any better thing
Than to have watched that hour as it passed.

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