A Mythologian's Confession

Idealist, perhaps, romantic fool, but I

run Spirit-drunk with Bacchus as Christ's slave

And I as child; and from Valhalla's hall

With stolen flame, turn salt-wet face

To face the misty tendrils of Poseidon's thunder.

Hide me on a crag where spirits, gull-like, cry

To hear his breathing, deep below, and watch

Selene, gleaming, lead his flow, and back,

and forth, bow to stern cliff, and break.

Let woods grow restless at red Mars' descent

And Jove disperse our comedy with joy;

The strangest scene is green and pleasant land

With no half-light, no faerie and

No 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 sustain

The wildness vast. So, dancing done,

I take the cloak proffered and curl

Up in the heart of fire Samhain:

A live coal unconsumed,

and sleep.

And sleeping, watch

Till ancients all bow to the sway
Of God out-poured, the highest Name to own.

- RDG