Masks

These tales of old disguisings, are they not / Strange myths of souls that found themselves among / Unwonted folk that spake an hostile tongue, / Some soul from all the rest who'd not forgot / The star-span acres of a former lot / Where boundless mid the clouds his course he swung, / Or carnate with his elder brothers sung / Ere ballad-makers lisped of Camelot? // Old singers half-forgetful of their tunes, / Old painters color-blind come back once more, / Old poets skill-less in the wind-heart runes, / Old wizards lacking in their wonder-lore: // All they that with strange sadness in their eyes / Ponder in silence o'er earth's queynt devyse?

E. Pound