To Ezra Pound
The Poet took his walking-stickOf fine and polished ebony.Set in the close-grained woodWere quaint devices;Patterns in ambers,And in the clouded green of jades.The top was of smooth, yellow ivory,And a tassel of tarnished goldHung by a faded cord from a holePierced in the hard wood,Circled with silver.For years the Poet had wrought upon this cane.His wealth had gone to enrich it,His experiences to pattern it,His labour to fashion and burnish it.To him it was perfect,A work of art and a weapon,A delight and a defence.The Poet took his walking-stickAnd walked abroad.Peace be with you, Brother.
The Poet came to a meadow.Sifted through the grass were daisies,Open-mouthed, wondering, they gazed at the sun.The Poet struck them with his cane.The little heads flew off, and they layDying, open-mouthed and wondering,On the hard ground."They are useless. They are not roses," said the Poet.
Peace be with you, Brother. Go your ways.
The Poet came to a stream.Purple and blue flags waded in the water;In among them hopped the speckled frogs;The wind slid through them, rustling.The Poet lifted his cane,And the iris heads fell into the water.They floated away, torn and drowning."Wretched flowers," said the Poet,"They are not roses."
Peace be with you, Brother. It is your affair.
The Poet came to a garden.Dahlias ripened against a wall,Gillyflowers stood up bravely for all their short stature,And a trumpet-vine covered an arbourWith the red and gold of its blossoms.Red and gold like the brass notes of trumpets.The Poet knocked off the stiff heads of the dahlias,And his cane lopped the gillyflowers at the ground.Then he severed the trumpet-blossoms from their stems.Red and gold they lay scattered,Red and gold, as on a battle field;Red and gold, prone and dying."They were not roses," said the Poet.
Peace be with you, Brother.But behind you is destruction, and waste places.
The Poet came home at evening,And in the candle-lightHe wiped and polished his cane.The orange candle flame leaped in the yellow ambers,And made the jades undulate like green pools.It played along the bright ebony,And glowed in the top of cream-coloured ivory.But these things were dead,Only the candle-light made them seem to move."It is a pity there were no roses," said the Poet.
Peace be with you, Brother. You have chosen your part.
Words in this poem
- quaint a.
- Prudent; wise; hence, crafty; artful; wily. [OE. queint, queynte, coint, prudent, wise, cunning, pretty, odd, OF. cointe cultivated, amiable, agreeable, neat, fr. L. cognitus known, p. p. of cognoscere to ]
- circled a.
- Having the form of a circle; round.
- wealth n.
- Weal; welfare; prosperity; good. [OE. welthe, from wele; cf. D. weelde luxury. See Weal prosperity.]
- burnish v. t.
- To cause to shine; to make smooth and bright; to polish; specifically, to polish by rubbing with something hard and smooth; as, to burnish brass or paper. [OE. burnischen, burnissen, burnen, OF. burnir, brunir, to make brown, polish, F. brunir, fr. F. brun brown, fr. OHG. br; cf. MHG. briunen to make brown, polish.]
- defence n.
- The act of defending, or the state of being defended; protection, as from violence or danger. [F. défense, OF. defense, fem., defens, masc., fr. L. defensa (cf. Fence.]
- hopped p. a.
- Impregnated with hops.
- bravely adv.
- In a brave manner; courageously; gallantly; valiantly; splendidly; nobly.
- arbour n.
- A kind of latticework formed of, or covered with, vines, branches of trees, or other plants, for shade; a bower. Sir P. [OE. herber, herbere, properly a garden of herbs, F. herbier, fr. L. herbarium. See Herb, and cf. Herbarium.]
- trumpets n.
- A plant (Sarracenia flava) with long, hollow leaves.
- undulate v. t.
- To cause to move backward and forward, or up and down, in undulations or waves; to cause to vibrate.
- coloured a.
- Having color; tinged; dyed; painted; stained.
Definitions and etymologies from Webster's Unabridged Dictionary, 1913.
About this text
To Ezra Pound is in the public domain. This text is taken from Sword Blades and Poppy Seed, Project Gutenberg ebook #1020; the transcription's header, footer and licence were removed and nothing else was changed. You may copy, print and reuse it freely.
Cite as: Amy Lowell, To Ezra Pound, in Sword Blades and Poppy Seed (1914), text of Project Gutenberg ebook #1020, Laurel, https://laurelpoetry.com/poem/lowell-amy-sword-blades/to-ezra-pound.html, id L08203.
Form and metre
To Ezra Pound is 66 lines in 9 stanzas. This poem did not settle on a metre of its own; the book it comes from is in iambic tetrameter. 85% of its stressed syllables fall where the metre puts the beat. The lines average 8.7 syllables. 31 lines end on an unstressed syllable, a feminine ending. 13% of the lines run on without a stop at the line end.
See other poems in iambic tetrameter.
Measured by Laurel's pipeline, not copied from a handbook: how stress and metre are counted, how rhyme is lettered, how a drifted rhyme is found. Where the dictionary cannot confirm a rhyme the letter is withheld, not guessed.
Rhyme words, stanza by stanza
The word that ends each line, lettered by the rhyme it makes; a dash is a line whose rhyme the dictionary could not confirm.
- 1 A-B------B--CCC---A-- stickA · ebony · woodB · devices · ambers · jades · ivory · gold · hole · woodB · silver · cane · itC · itC · itC · perfect · weapon · defence · stickA · abroad · brother
- 4 -A---A--- stream · waterA · frogs · rustling · cane · waterA · drowning · poet · roses
- 6 ----A---A---- garden · wall · stature · arbour · blossomsA · trumpets · dahlias · ground · stemsA · scattered · field · dying · poet
Scansion, line by line
Each line with its syllable count and the stresses the words themselves fix: / stressed, ˘ unstressed, · a syllable the word leaves free and the metre decides. Read against iambic tetrameter. How this is done.
| Line | Syl. | Stress |
|---|---|---|
| The Poet took his walking-stick | 8 | ·/˘··/˘· |
| Of fine and polished ebony. | 9 | ···/˘˘/˘˘ |
| Set in the close-grained wood | 6 | ······ |
| Were quaint devices; | 5 | ··˘/˘ |
| Patterns in ambers, | 5 | /˘·/˘ |
| And in the clouded green of jades. | 8 | ···/˘··· |
| The top was of smooth, yellow ivory, | 10 | ·····/˘/˘˘ |
| And a tassel of tarnished gold | 9 | ··/˘·/˘˘· |
| Hung by a faded cord from a hole | 9 | ···/˘···· |
| Pierced in the hard wood, | 5 | ····· |
| Circled with silver. | 5 | /˘·/˘ |
| For years the Poet had wrought upon this cane. | 11 | ···/˘······ |
| His wealth had gone to enrich it, | 8 | ·····˘/· |
| His experiences to pattern it, | 10 | ·˘/˘˘˘·/˘· |
| His labour to fashion and burnish it. | 10 | ·/˘·/˘·/˘· |
| To him it was perfect, | 6 | ····˘/ |
| A work of art and a weapon, | 8 | ······/˘ |
| A delight and a defence. | 7 | ·˘/··˘/ |
| The Poet took his walking-stick | 8 | ·/˘··/˘· |
| And walked abroad. | 4 | ··˘/ |
| Peace be with you, Brother. | 6 | ····/˘ |
| The Poet came to a meadow. | 8 | ·/˘···/· |
| Sifted through the grass were daisies, | 8 | /˘····/˘ |
| Open-mouthed, wondering, they gazed at the sun. | 10 | /˘·/˘····· |
| The Poet struck them with his cane. | 8 | ·/˘····· |
| The little heads flew off, and they lay | 9 | ·/˘······ |
| Dying, open-mouthed and wondering, | 10 | /˘/˘·˘·/˘˘ |
| On the hard ground. | 4 | ···· |
| "They are useless. They are not roses," said the Poet. | 13 | ··/˘···/˘··/˘ |
| Peace be with you, Brother. Go your ways. | 9 | ····/˘··· |
| The Poet came to a stream. | 7 | ·/˘···· |
| Purple and blue flags waded in the water; | 11 | /˘···/˘··/˘ |
| In among them hopped the speckled frogs; | 10 | ·····˘·/˘· |
| The wind slid through them, rustling. | 7 | ·····/˘ |
| The Poet lifted his cane, | 7 | ·/˘/˘·· |
| And the iris heads fell into the water. | 11 | ··/˘·····/˘ |
| They floated away, torn and drowning. | 9 | ·/˘˘/··/˘ |
| "Wretched flowers," said the Poet, | 8 | /˘/˘··/˘ |
| "They are not roses." | 5 | ···/˘ |
| Peace be with you, Brother. It is your affair. | 11 | ····/˘···˘/ |
| The Poet came to a garden. | 8 | ·/˘···/˘ |
| Dahlias ripened against a wall, | 9 | /˘/˘˘···· |
| Gillyflowers stood up bravely for all their short stature, | 14 | ······/˘····/˘ |
| And a trumpet-vine covered an arbour | 10 | ··/˘·/˘·/˘ |
| With the red and gold of its blossoms. | 9 | ·······/˘ |
| Red and gold like the brass notes of trumpets. | 10 | ········/˘ |
| The Poet knocked off the stiff heads of the dahlias, | 12 | ·/˘·······/˘ |
| And his cane lopped the gillyflowers at the ground. | 12 | ············ |
| Then he severed the trumpet-blossoms from their stems. | 12 | ··/˘·/˘/˘··· |
| Red and gold they lay scattered, | 7 | ·····/˘ |
| Red and gold, as on a battle field; | 9 | ······/˘· |
| Red and gold, prone and dying. | 7 | ·····/˘ |
| "They were not roses," said the Poet. | 9 | ···/˘··/˘ |
| Peace be with you, Brother. | 6 | ····/˘ |
| But behind you is destruction, and waste places. | 12 | ·····˘/˘··/˘ |
| The Poet came home at evening, | 8 | ·/˘···/˘ |
| And in the candle-light | 6 | ···/˘· |
| He wiped and polished his cane. | 7 | ···/˘·· |
| The orange candle flame leaped in the yellow ambers, | 13 | ·/˘/˘····/˘/˘ |
| And made the jades undulate like green pools. | 10 | ····/˘···· |
| It played along the bright ebony, | 10 | ··˘˘/··/˘˘ |
| And glowed in the top of cream-coloured ivory. | 11 | ·······/˘/˘ |
| But these things were dead, | 5 | ····· |
| Only the candle-light made them seem to move. | 11 | /˘·/˘······ |
| "It is a pity there were no roses," said the Poet. | 14 | ···/˘···/˘··/˘ |
| Peace be with you, Brother. You have chosen your part. | 12 | ····/˘··/˘·· |
The reader shows the same poem with its rhymes coloured and a stress row above each line, the notes beside their stanzas, and any word's definition on a tap; the analysis page takes the whole book apart. How every part of this site was made.