In my farther wandering dreams I’ve seen
the veiled garden of the Hesperides;
the sacramental apples flushed with gold,
the esoteric double headed snake,
the muted sky twined up with something rare
and allied to another, changeless race.

If I could grasp that staggering golden flesh
I’d fix my countenance with borrowed weight
in stern and holy aspect, climb Olympia
to admire Hephaestus’ early work
and gossip with the daughters of Pleione
while the earth and it’s familiar ache
fell quietly back in soft decay and dust.