I don’t read Whitman. He sucks, but Pound is a pimp. Pound is the better poet, while Whitman, like many of his generation, spends too much time being hyperspiritual and hypocritical.
WHAT am I, after all, but a child, pleas’d with the sound of my own
name? repeating it over and over;
I stand apart to hear–it never tires me.
To you, your name also;
Did you think there was nothing but two or three pronunciations in
the sound of your name?
Pound knows he has those tendencies, and calls them out.
I make a pact with you, Walt Whitman –
I have detested you long enough.
I come to you as a grown child
Who has had a pig-headed father;
I am old enough now to make friends.
It was you that broke the new wood,
Now is a time for carving.
We have one sap and one root –
Let there be commerce between us.