Idealist, perhaps, romantic fool, but Irun Spirit-drunk with Bacchus as Christ's slaveAnd I as child; and from Valhalla's hallWith stolen flame, turn salt-wet faceTo face the misty tendrils of Poseidon's thunder.Hide me on a crag where spirits, gull-like, cryTo hear his breathing, deep below, and watchSelene, gleaming, lead his flow, and back,and forth, bow to stern cliff, and break.Let woods grow restless at red Mars' descentAnd Jove disperse our comedy with joy;The strangest scene is green and pleasant landWith no half-light, no faerie andNo king.
Were I to move in nymphic harmony,Then science would declare not all is there:Ignoring, deaf, the larger part (my muse).Yet, true, before man's regency restored,Unrisen heart cannot sustainThe wildness vast. So, dancing done,I take the cloak proffered and curlUp in the heart of fire Samhain:A live coal unconsumed,and sleep.
And sleeping, watchTill ancients all bow to the sway
Of God out-poured, the highest Name to own.