Ezra Pound (1885–1972)

NOW would I weave her portrait out of all dim splendour.

Of Provence and far halls of memory,

Lo, there come echoes, faint diversity

Of blended bells at even’s end, or

As the distant seas should send her

The tribute of their trembling, ceaselessly

Resonant. Out of all dreams that be,

Say, shall I bid the deepest dreams attend her?

Nay! For I have seen the purplest shadows stand

Alway with reverent cheer that look’d on her,

Silence himself is grown her worshipper

And ever doth attend her in that land

Wherein she reigneth, wherefore let there stir

Naught but the softest voices, praising her.