In the Old Age of the Soul

 

 

 

I do not choose to dream; there cometh on me

Some strange old lust for deeds.

As to the nerveless hand of some old warrior

Te sword-hilt or the war-worn wonted helmet

Brings momentary life and long-fled cunning,

So to my soul grown old –

Grown ole with many a jousting, many a foray,

Grown old with many a hither-coming and hence-going –

Till now they send him dreams and no more deed;

So doth he flame again with might for action,

Forgetful of the council of elders,

So doth he flame again toward valiant doing.

 

Ezra Pound