In the Old Age of the Soul (poem)
I do not choose to dream; there cometh on me
Some strange old lust for deeds.
As to the nerveless hand of some old warrior
The sword-hilt or the war-worn wonted helmet
Brings momentary life and long-fled cunning,
So to my soul grown old –
Grown old with many a jousting, many a foray,
Grown old with many a hither-coming and hence-going –
Till now they send him dreams and no more deed;
So doth he flame again with might for action,
Forgetful of the council of elders,
Forgetful that who rules doth no more battle,
Forgetful that such might no more cleaves to him
So doth he flame again toward valiant doing.
Ezra Pound
Analysis (ai): This poem explores the tension between the desire for action and the constraints of aging. The speaker personifies the soul as an “old warrior,” whose “nerveless hand” still yearns for the “sword-hilt.” This imagery suggests a longing for the vigor and purpose of youth, despite the physical limitations of old age. The recurring phrase “Grown old” emphasizes the soul’s weariness, but also hints at its resilience. Despite its age, the soul “doth flame again” with “might for action,” defying the “council of elders” and the expectations of society. The poem concludes with an unresolved tension, as the speaker acknowledges the limitations imposed by age but remains drawn to the allure of “valiant doing.”
Compared to Pound’s other works, this poem is relatively straightforward and direct in its language, lacking the experimental techniques found in some of his later poetry. However, it shares with much of his work a preoccupation with time, memory, and the search for meaning in the face of change and loss. The poem also reflects the historical context of its time, written during the early 20th century when traditional values and structures were being challenged by modernism and the rise of new technologies. The poem’s longing for the past and its exploration of the conflict between the individual and society resonate with the anxieties and aspirations of that era.
