Ezra Pound
THE REST
O helpless few in my country,
O remnant enslaved!
Artists broken against her,
A-stray, lost in the villages,
Mistrusted, spoken-against,
Lovers of beauty, starved,
Thwarted with systems,
Helpless against the control;
You who cannot wear yourselves out
By persisting to successes,
You who can only speak,
Who cannot steel yourselves into reiteration;
You of the finer sense,
Broken against false knowledge,
You who can know at first hand,
Hated, shut in, mistrusted.
Take thought:
I have weathered the storm,
I have beaten out my exile.
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