The Summons

by Ezra Pound

I can not bow to woo thee With honey words and flower kisses And the dew of sweet half-truths Fallen on the grass of old quaint love-tales Of broidered days foredone. Nor in the murmurous twilight May I sit below thee, Worshiping in whispers Tremulous as far-heard bells. All these things have I known once And passed In that gay youth I had but yester-year. And that is gone As the shadow of wind. Nay, I can not woo thee thus; But as I am ever swept upward To the centre of all truth So must I bear thee with me Rapt into this great involving flame, Calling ever from the midst thereof, "Follow! Follow!" And in the glory of our meeting Shall the power be reborn. And together in the midst of this power Must we, each outstriving each, Cry eternally: "I come, go thou yet further." And again, "Follow," For we may not tarry.