Five Sonnets

1Now lift the burden of your pagan hair,And shame the sun; now stretch your eager hands,And with your lily-fingers fasten bandsAbout me. I am Prometheus, and so dare.Your eyes are vultures and my heart their fare,But you are something no one understands,You are the spirit of the falling sands,You are the color that is lost in prayer.I am Prometheus, but your dreams conceiveNew subtle desolations for desire,Holding aloft the gold unbroken bowl.What wisdom of black art can so deceive?For though it is the guerdon of my soul,I cannot reach to steal that Titan fire.2Let the Hippolytuses make their prayersTo altars of cold death, and let them takeThe dead results their clear libations make,Or with bowed head climb up the golden stairs.The glory of their dying is all theirsWho have found fire only about the stake,—It is a pity we should try to breakThe perfect symmetry of their despairs.But we who are the children of our birthLoving the clay we are, and are to be,Find more sufficient life wherein we spawn,And eat and drink, mere creatures of the earth,And so endure with less fragilityThe sun and starlight of the lonely dawn.3Icannot watch this dawn with humble eyes,Feel the wind on my forehead, and not feelMy genius and my destiny revealThemselves unto the surge of that surmise,Nor with a humdrum and dust-worn surpriseCan I unveil the λόγος you conceal,Or praise the Potter or the Potter’s wheelFor having made the beautiful that dies.It is with a new light I find my way,But you have given that; it is your light.And if I walked in darkness as of old,I should not blame the Gods, nor shall I sayThat they have changed into this day the night,Or fashioned of my crown of thorns this gold.4Could I foresee the Truth gleaming aheadOut of our common reach, but in my own,I should not go unto that perilous throneTo lose myself among the famous dead.For in the glory where a martyr’s bledLurks a renunciation of the known,—His wine is salty, and his bread a stone....Mine is a sparkling wine, mine sweetened bread.I care not for a deathless imageryWith you a living image by my side,Nor for a visioned truth with you the true.I need no Godhood save the gift of prideTo make my idol my idolatry,And me insatiate of only you.5Amoment hold that pose for my applause:My heart’s an artist; it would paint its fill.Let you the model be the test of skillWhether or not your eye or mine’s the cause.No need this moment for artistic laws;Lost in the poem is the prosaic will—,My art is lost in you. And do you killThe picture moving so?—A moment pause.So goes the brush on canvas, so the rhyme,And so mortality. What do we fearIf there be only a moment, so that lives?The aeon passes, and no dream regivesIts passion repetition in our time.Pause for a moment. There is beauty here.MAXWELL E. FOSTER.

Now lift the burden of your pagan hair,And shame the sun; now stretch your eager hands,And with your lily-fingers fasten bandsAbout me. I am Prometheus, and so dare.Your eyes are vultures and my heart their fare,But you are something no one understands,You are the spirit of the falling sands,You are the color that is lost in prayer.

Now lift the burden of your pagan hair,

And shame the sun; now stretch your eager hands,

And with your lily-fingers fasten bands

About me. I am Prometheus, and so dare.

Your eyes are vultures and my heart their fare,

But you are something no one understands,

You are the spirit of the falling sands,

You are the color that is lost in prayer.

I am Prometheus, but your dreams conceiveNew subtle desolations for desire,Holding aloft the gold unbroken bowl.What wisdom of black art can so deceive?For though it is the guerdon of my soul,I cannot reach to steal that Titan fire.

I am Prometheus, but your dreams conceive

New subtle desolations for desire,

Holding aloft the gold unbroken bowl.

What wisdom of black art can so deceive?

For though it is the guerdon of my soul,

I cannot reach to steal that Titan fire.

Let the Hippolytuses make their prayersTo altars of cold death, and let them takeThe dead results their clear libations make,Or with bowed head climb up the golden stairs.The glory of their dying is all theirsWho have found fire only about the stake,—It is a pity we should try to breakThe perfect symmetry of their despairs.

Let the Hippolytuses make their prayers

To altars of cold death, and let them take

The dead results their clear libations make,

Or with bowed head climb up the golden stairs.

The glory of their dying is all theirs

Who have found fire only about the stake,—

It is a pity we should try to break

The perfect symmetry of their despairs.

But we who are the children of our birthLoving the clay we are, and are to be,Find more sufficient life wherein we spawn,And eat and drink, mere creatures of the earth,And so endure with less fragilityThe sun and starlight of the lonely dawn.

But we who are the children of our birth

Loving the clay we are, and are to be,

Find more sufficient life wherein we spawn,

And eat and drink, mere creatures of the earth,

And so endure with less fragility

The sun and starlight of the lonely dawn.

Icannot watch this dawn with humble eyes,Feel the wind on my forehead, and not feelMy genius and my destiny revealThemselves unto the surge of that surmise,Nor with a humdrum and dust-worn surpriseCan I unveil the λόγος you conceal,Or praise the Potter or the Potter’s wheelFor having made the beautiful that dies.

Icannot watch this dawn with humble eyes,

Feel the wind on my forehead, and not feel

My genius and my destiny reveal

Themselves unto the surge of that surmise,

Nor with a humdrum and dust-worn surprise

Can I unveil the λόγος you conceal,

Or praise the Potter or the Potter’s wheel

For having made the beautiful that dies.

It is with a new light I find my way,But you have given that; it is your light.And if I walked in darkness as of old,I should not blame the Gods, nor shall I sayThat they have changed into this day the night,Or fashioned of my crown of thorns this gold.

It is with a new light I find my way,

But you have given that; it is your light.

And if I walked in darkness as of old,

I should not blame the Gods, nor shall I say

That they have changed into this day the night,

Or fashioned of my crown of thorns this gold.

Could I foresee the Truth gleaming aheadOut of our common reach, but in my own,I should not go unto that perilous throneTo lose myself among the famous dead.For in the glory where a martyr’s bledLurks a renunciation of the known,—His wine is salty, and his bread a stone....Mine is a sparkling wine, mine sweetened bread.

Could I foresee the Truth gleaming ahead

Out of our common reach, but in my own,

I should not go unto that perilous throne

To lose myself among the famous dead.

For in the glory where a martyr’s bled

Lurks a renunciation of the known,—

His wine is salty, and his bread a stone....

Mine is a sparkling wine, mine sweetened bread.

I care not for a deathless imageryWith you a living image by my side,Nor for a visioned truth with you the true.I need no Godhood save the gift of prideTo make my idol my idolatry,And me insatiate of only you.

I care not for a deathless imagery

With you a living image by my side,

Nor for a visioned truth with you the true.

I need no Godhood save the gift of pride

To make my idol my idolatry,

And me insatiate of only you.

Amoment hold that pose for my applause:My heart’s an artist; it would paint its fill.Let you the model be the test of skillWhether or not your eye or mine’s the cause.No need this moment for artistic laws;Lost in the poem is the prosaic will—,My art is lost in you. And do you killThe picture moving so?—A moment pause.

Amoment hold that pose for my applause:

My heart’s an artist; it would paint its fill.

Let you the model be the test of skill

Whether or not your eye or mine’s the cause.

No need this moment for artistic laws;

Lost in the poem is the prosaic will—,

My art is lost in you. And do you kill

The picture moving so?—A moment pause.

So goes the brush on canvas, so the rhyme,And so mortality. What do we fearIf there be only a moment, so that lives?The aeon passes, and no dream regivesIts passion repetition in our time.Pause for a moment. There is beauty here.

So goes the brush on canvas, so the rhyme,

And so mortality. What do we fear

If there be only a moment, so that lives?

The aeon passes, and no dream regives

Its passion repetition in our time.

Pause for a moment. There is beauty here.

MAXWELL E. FOSTER.

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