Classic Poem

(To Michael Strange)

You, the balancer upon star-beams,
You, the height intoxicated,
With forehead sparkled by star-dust
As by strange pollen from Celestial flowers, —
You, dancing rapt over infinite abysms,
On a thread of light
More subtile than the most subtile thought, —
You having plucked from Hermes the Caduceus
To serve as balancing rod
In your aerial gyrations,
In your prismy flashings
On courses forbidden
To the meek and obedient planets, —
You, flinging yourself even from that thread of light
Grasping only the winged rod
And diving headlong into space
Hearing the soft hiss of the twin serpents
Urging you on, on, —
You, enamoured of the inexpressible,
In love with the unutterable,
Frantic for the non-existent,
You, the soul that slipped through God's fingers
Before He could tame it,
You pulsing with divine resentment
That God should be one and you another,
You heaven-sick for regions that no god has yet appropriated,
Thirsting to gulp eternity at a draught
And pour infinity into the cup of your thought,
You that would shatter heaven like a crystal bowl
Could you but grasp it in your little hands
For the sheer delight of exploring what lies beyond it,
You, a voice singing in the spatial wilderness of your own amazement,
The winged lute of gods yet to be born,
You are young, young, and I love you for it!