To the rare old earth from the older heavens
It came in your grasp:
Fire from the wedding, element most regal;
Your daring had no match,
Deliverance yet the work of an eagle
While you waited, fearing blindness,
For the kindness of another god.
Such a crime will prick the fullness of time
To ease survival of a titan’s jibe
That his army’s words are sharp as swords,
Quicker than burial lime.
We have spat in the turf fire and forgot your name,
Bound up by the small men of the inner tribe;
Recalling ancient impotence or rising shame,
Complaisant still below the rigging,
Loving music plucked upon the cords;
And living is not digging
The grave of our own god’s rival.