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The Rest

Ezra Pound
The Rest

O helpless few in my country, 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 can not wear yourselves out
By persisting to successes,
You who can only speak,
Who can not 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.