An Immorality
   

Sing we for love and idleness,
Naught else is worth the having.

Though I have been in many a land,
There is naught else in living.

And I would rather have my sweet,
Though rose-leaves die of grieving,

Than do high deeds in Hungary
To pass all men's believing.

Ezra Pound



I am aware of Pound's difficulties during the war. That said, I like much of his poetry--especially the ones I comprehend.