Noon at Pæstum
Lord of the Sea, we sun-filled creatures raise
Our hands among the clamorous weeds,—we too.
Lord of the Sun, and of the upper blue,
Of all To-morrow, and all yesterdays,
Here, where the thousand broken names and ways
Of worship are but shards we wandered through,
There is no gift to offer, or undo;
There is no prayer left in us, only praise.
Only to glory in this glory here,
Through the dead smoke of myriad sacrifice;—
To look through these blue spaces, blind and clear
Even as the seaward gaze of Homer’s eyes;
And from uplifted heart, and cup, to pour
Wine to the Unknown God.
—We ask no more.