Ezra Pound - Sestina: Altaforte

　　LOQUITUR: En Bertans de Born. Dante Alighieri put this man in hell

　　for that he was a stirrer up of strife. Eccovi! Judge ye! Have I dug

　　him up again? The scene is at his castle, Altaforte. "Papiols" is his

　　jongleur. "The Leopard," the device of Richard Coeur de Lion.

　　I

　　Damn it all! all this our South stinks peace.

　　You whoreson dog, Papiols, come! Let's to music!

　　I have no life save when the swords clash.

　　But ah! when I see the standards gold, vair, purple, opposing

　　And the broad fields beneath them turn crimson,

　　Then howl I my heart nigh mad with rejoicing.

　　II

　　In hot summer I have great rejoicing

　　When the tempests kill the earth's foul peace,

　　And the lightning from black heav'n flash crimson,

　　And the fierce thunders roar me their music

　　And the winds shriek through the clouds mad, opposing,

　　And through all the riven skies God's swords clash.

　　III

　　Hell grant soon we hear again the swords clash!

　　And the shrill neighs of destriers in battle rejoicing,

　　Spiked breast to spiked breat opposing!

　　Better one hour's stour than a year's peace

　　With fat boards, bawds, wine and frail music!

　　Bah! there's no wine like the blood's crimson!

　　IV

　　And I love to see the sun rise blood-crimson.

　　And I watch his spears through the dark clash

　　And it fills all my heart with rejoicing

　　And pries wide my mouth with fast music

　　When I see him so scorn and defy peace,

　　His long might 'gainst all darkness opposing.

　　V

　　The man who fears war and squats opposing

　　My words for stour, hath no blood of crimson

　　But is fit only to rot in womanish peace

　　Far from where worth's won and the swords clash

　　For the death of such sluts I go rejoicing;

　　Yea, I fill all the air with my music.

　　VI

　　Papiols, Papiols, to the music!

　　There's no sound like to swords swords opposing,

　　No cry like the battle's rejoicing

　　When our elbows and swords drip the crimson

　　And our charges 'gainst "The Leopard's" rush clash.

　　May God damn for ever all who cry "Peace!"

　　VII

　　And let the music of the swords make them crimson!

　　Hell grant soon we hear again the swords clash!

　　Hell blot black for always the thought "Peace!"

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