
But when the heavenly ones have
built the mountains,
it is quiet on earth.
And comely there standing,
with brows distinct,
it struck them where
daughterly, the god’s trembling ray,
h o l d s
the thunderer —
untender.
And the uproar above
is quenched and well-scented.
Where indwells the fire, besoothing, here and there, out-pours j o y -- the thunderer would leave awash in rage the half-forgotten of the heavens, were he not warned by the Wise One.
But now there blossoms
at the barren point
a wonderful great wanting
for there to be with-standing
ranges hanging into the sea,
Warmth Depth but the cool air of
Isles and half-islands:
for Grottoes embedded
fast in roses,
a glistening signpost
or it creates
another way too
Many an envious weed
sprout out, darkening flashing up,
swiftly, adoringly, then it teases,
the creative one, but they
understand it not. Wrathfully too
it grips and grows, as in flames,
in houses, it consumes, up-heaving,
heedlessly, and sparing
not the space, but the trail hides
vast-spreading, a fuming cloud,
un-ordained wilderness.
So it would seem godly.
A fearsome tensegrity of
of unwelcoming wreathes coils
around the garden,
eyeless ones, where the way out
could scarcely be divined
by a human with pure hands. He goes, destined,
and searches for what is necessary,
animal-like, indeed with arms
full of foreknowing would one be greeted there
by the goal, where
the shape of the heavenly
in-dwellers of a fence or sign
points their way.
Or it showers like fire itself
in the breasts of men,
for one needful of a bath.
And the father has
others with him still.
Then crossing the Alps
having to orient themselves by the eagle
lest it augur with the fury of ownmost sense,
the poet, in the flight of the bird,
around the throne of the god of joy,
dwelling and hiding the abyss
from him, like pale fire itself,
in rapturous times, there dawns,
on the brows of men,
a prophesying that would
yearn for the fear-loving,
the shades of hell
But her a pure destiny arrogated. Irrigating the land’s holy vessels for the cleanser, Heracles, who stays very clearly always, now still together with Caesar, but breath-bringing is the climb of the old god’s star-crowned sons along the unwayward flights, when the heavenly Feast
draws away from the mountains
at nighttime, and into the time of Pythagoras
In memory and living Philoctetes.
Who brings help to the father.
For it would be calming. But when
Driven in vain, it rouses her
to the earth and it takes away
of the heavenly
this sense, incendiary they
Return where,
Breathless they –
And for hate of
the expiation of God
it grows untimely.