Sing we for love and idleness, Naught else is worth the having. Though I have been in many a land, There is naught else in living. And I would rather have my sweet, Though rose-leaves die of grieving, Than do high deeds in Hungary To pass all men's believing.
Rate this Poem:
Return to the Ezra Pound library , or . . . Read the next poem; Exile's Letter (Pound)