Say, would you blame me if I knelt
To put faith to its enterprise?
So surely must her touch be felt
In liquid coolness on my eyes.
Now listen! If the veil should part
Within this holy ritual,
Youll hear a voice call to my heart
More lovely than a madrigal.
WISER than thought, more intimate than breath,
More ancient than the plated rust of Mars,
Beyond the light geometry of stars,
Yet closer than our web of life and death--
This sergeant of the executing squads
Calls night from dawn no less than dawn from night;
This groom that teams the wolf and hare for flight
Is obstetrician at the birth of gods.
Around this crimson source of human fears,
Where rites and myths have built their scaffoldings,
With smoke of hecatombs upon her wings,
And chased by shadows of the coming years,
Our planet-moth tries blindly to survive
Her spinning vertigo as fugitive.
But stronger than its terror is the deep
Allurement, primary to our blood, which holds
Safety and warmth in unimpassioned folds,
Night and the candle-quietness of sleep;
With the day's bugles silent, when the will,
That feeds the tumult of our natures, rests
Along the broken arteries of its quests.
So, let the yellowing world revolve until
The old Sun's ultimate expatriate
On this exotic hearth leans forth to claim