(Robert Graves, 1895-1985)

He ferreted first things to their first cause:

The Alphabet, to trees in a Sacred Grove;

The one true theme of poetry, to love

Under the immitigable Muse's laws,

Her laws all else is lost for if obeyed,

Ardor inseparable from primal fright

As when bombardment raked his trench all night And Reason gibbered in a world gone mad.

His gift was twinned, as he himself was twain— His suppliant lover's, his strict captain's art

Found bliss and death clutched one to the other's heart, For simple Truth with Paradox had lain.

His poems, spurning the chaos of our days,

On passion shed their coruscating blaze

As, at the instant of the year's ascension,

Stonehenge's heelstone pours the blinding sun.

Reprinted by permission of Lousiana State University Press from Hang-Gliding from Helicon by Daniel Hoffman. Copyright (c) 1988 by Daniel Hoffman.

Swarthmore

Pennsylvania, USA