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Written by Ezra Pound
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Tho thou well dost wish me ill
Audiart, Audiart,
Where thy bodice laces start
As ivy fingers clutching thru
Its crevices,
Audiart, Audiart,
Stately, tall and lovely tender
Who shall render
Audiart, Audiart
Praises meet unto thy fashion?
Here a word kiss!
Pass I on
Unto Lady "Miels-de-Ben",
Having praised thy girdles scope,
How the stays ply back from it;
I breathe no hope
That thou shouldst . . . .
Nay no whit
Bespeak thyself for anything.
Just a word in thy praise, girl,
Just for the swirl
Thy satins make upon the stair,
Cause never a flaw was there
Where thy torse and limbs are met:
Tho thou hate me, read it set
In rose and gold, *
Or when the minstrel, tale half told
Shall burst to lilting at the phrase
"Audiart, Audiart" . . . .
Bertrans, master of his lays,
Bertrans of Aultaforte thy praise
Sets forth, and tho thou hate me well,
Yea tho thou wish me ill
Audiart, Audiart.
Thy lovliness is here writ till,
Audiart,
Oh, till thou come again.
And being bent and wrinkled, in a form
That hath no perfect limning, when the warm
Youth dew is cold
Upon thy hands, and thy old soul
Scorning a new, wryd casement
Churlish at seemed misplacement
Finds the earth as bitter
As now seems it sweet,
Being so young and fair
As then only in dreams,
Being then young and wryd,
Broken of ancient pride
Thou shalt then soften
Knowing I know not how
Thou wert once she
Audiart, Audiart
For whose fairness one forgave
Audiart, Audiart
Que be-m vols mal.
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