Beneath, the forefather intricately spreads.
Of all our edifice
The root. Occult wellspring,
It has never been suspected.
Knight’s helmet and hunter’s horn,
Wise words of those grown old,
Rage between brothers,
The lute-playing of women’s souls.
Branch upon branch urged on,
Nowhere disentangled ...
One is free! Oh, climb! ... oh, climb! ...
Ah, but they break off.
Yet one, reaching the top, bends
Into a lyre.
© Robert Temple 2010. Website designed by Jonathan Greet