I begin my tale by pleading to be thought humbled by the circumstance I relate. By no means have my musings and the answer I derived from them made me wiser or more worthy than any other holy man. But it is fitting that I next tell you that I
A hero like the ones of old I ply my skill to sing. What would you call the hero Who comes to serve a king Whose country needs his power Lest they fall in dark despair? I call him one sent by the gods. But no bard's words
And thus I stood where thresholds melt like glass Becoming indistinct as light, withdrawn, Denies the pilgrim knowledge of the mass And weight of this, the journey he is on. There I remained, awaiting thresholds, taut As dogs await the master's sign to run. The pilgrim finds delight
Parnassus has called forth in beauty here; Has made the voice to tremble for the end. So come the words which echo, calling clear For roads of poetry to twist and bend Until there is a fork dividing ways: First one unto the mountain peak for more The other to
Let love fall on solid ground; Let it not diffuse like rain Which, landing in the ocean Disappears within again. Let it fall like meteors; Let it leave unearthly cracks In solid earth, the canyons Sending waves of mercy back. Let a good catastrophe Shake the earth in rushing light.