Poems begining by I

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Interruption

© Constantine Cavafy

We interrupt the work of the gods,
hasty and inexperienced beings of the moment.
In the palaces of Eleusis and Phthia
Demeter and Thetis start good works

In The Same Space

© Constantine Cavafy

The surroundings of home, centers, neighorhood
which I see and where I walk; for years and years.

Thus, except the Lacedaemonians at Granicus;
and then at Issus; and in the final
battle, where the formidable army was swept away
that the Persians had massed at Arbela:
which had set out from Arbela for victory, and was swept away.

In Harbor

© Constantine Cavafy

A young man, twenty eight years old, on a vessel from Tenos,
Emes arrived at this Syrian harbor
with the intention of learning the perfume trade.
But during the voyage he was taken ill. And as soon

I Went

© Constantine Cavafy

I did not restrain myself. I let go entirely and went.
To the pleasures that were half real
and half wheeling in my brain,
I went into the lit night.
And I drank of potent wines, such as
the valiant of voluptuousness drink.

In Church

© Constantine Cavafy

I love the church: its labara,
its silver vessels, its candleholders,
the lights, the ikons, the pulpit.

Ithaka

© Constantine Cavafy

And if you find her poor, Ithaka won't have fooled you.
Wise as you will have become, so full of experience,
you'll have understood by then what these Ithakas mean.

In Tempore Senectutis

© Ezra Pound

When I am old
I will not have you look apart
From me, into the cold,
Friend of my heart,

Invern

© Ezra Pound

Earth's winter cometh
And I being part of all
And sith the spirit of all moveth in me
I must needs bear earth's winter

Ione, Dead the Long Year

© Ezra Pound

Empty are the ways,
Empty are the ways of this land
And the flowers
Bend over with heavy heads.

In the Old Age of the Soul

© Ezra Pound

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
The sword-hilt or the war-worn wonted helmet

In A Station Of The Metro

© Ezra Pound

The apparition of these faces in the crowd;
Petals on a wet, black bough.

In a Southern Garden

WHEN the tall bamboos are clicking to the restless little breeze,
And bats begin their jerky skimming flight,
And the creamy scented blossoms of the dark pittosporum trees,
Grow sweeter with the coming of the night.

Inferential

For there was more of him than what I saw.
And there was on me more than the old awe
That is the common genius of the dead.
I might as well have heard him: Never mind;
If some of us were not so far behind,
The rest of us were not so far ahead.

Isaac and Archibald

Isaac and Archibald were two old men.
I knew them, and I may have laughed at them
A little; but I must have honored them
For they were old, and they were good to me.