Pound wrote his wife, Dorothy, “The chinese things . . . are worth the price of admission.”
On the way I saw the parrots of dusty crimson feathers wrangling over a piece of flesh, but on account of the perfume of thy scented billet I was unable to hear their screams.
A potter, who was creating the world, threw from him what seemed to him a useless lump of clay, and found that he had thrown away his left hand.
When the delicious verses of Li Po were praised in the Court of Heaven an envious mandarin complained of the poet’s scandalous life. The Divine Emperor, who was walking in his garden, held out a rose and asked him, “Do you smell the gardener’s manure?”
(1915?)
