Must you walk up on so high,
Hyperion, fatherly titan? Up
There, in wuthering heights,
Which leave me, a mere mortal,
Breathless and hopelessly blind?
Oh, to catch a glimpse of your
Cape, honey-gold, and the sight
Of your waving gilded hair! You
Carry on your godly duties, holy
Son of the Sun, as you've for
Millenia. Dost thou tire, Sun-Son?
Doth thine fire ever wane? And
Your love for Man, ever-burning;
Will it, extinguished, leave us
In eternal night? Father! Of ages
Ancient I have learned, of olden
Ways have I heard in song and
Prose; the golden Athens, brave
Sparta and the Olympus, godly
Mountain, Sun-kissed kingdom
Of Divinity! Yet, oft we forget
Our forefathers' glory and woe;
In ignorance we repeat misdeeds
Foretold by history, thinking
Ourselves better, greater, wiser.
What fools we are, to forsake
Your guiding hand, Holy Father!
And the Spirit, which once walked
Among us, all-animating, heavenly
Vigour; dead! No more doth forests
Echo life, no more do seas foam with
Love; and the sky, holy ground of gods,
Shakes no more in thunderous roars!
Oh Life, son of Love; your flowers
Wilt. Shall I fashion a funerary garland
Out of these roses, last kisses of Heaven?
Hyperion! The day bleeds black, the night
Envelops us; forever dead, forever sad.
-
Author:
Joakim Bergen (
Offline) - Published: October 6th, 2023 02:59
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 0
- User favorite of this poem: L. B. Mek.
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Comments1
Thank you! What a brilliant poem
an ode that does justice
To one of my favourite poems
from my absolute favourite Poet
(forgive me
if I'm mistaken and you're not
referring to Keats' great!)
'Deep in the shady sadness of a vale
Far sunken from the healthy breath of morn,
Far from the fiery noon, and eve's one star,
Sat gray-hair'd Saturn, quiet as a stone,
Still as the silence round about his lair;
Forest on forest hung about his head
Like cloud on cloud. No stir of air was there,
Not so much life as on a summer's day
Robs not one light seed from the feather'd grass,
But where the dead leaf fell, there did it rest.
A stream went voiceless by, still deadened more
By reason of his fallen divinity
Spreading a shade: the Naiad 'mid her reeds
Press'd her cold finger closer to her lips.'
'She laid, and to the level of his ear
Leaning with parted lips, some words she spake
In solemn tenour and deep organ tone:
Some mourning words, which in our feeble tongue
Would come in these like accents; O how frail
To that large utterance of the early Gods!
"Saturn, look up!—though wherefore, poor old King?
I have no comfort for thee, no not one:
I cannot say, "O wherefore sleepest thou?"
For heaven is parted from thee, and the earth
Knows thee not, thus afflicted, for a God;
And ocean too, with all its solemn noise,
Has from thy sceptre pass'd; and all the air
Is emptied of thine hoary majesty.
Thy thunder, conscious of the new command,
Rumbles reluctant o'er our fallen house;
And thy sharp lightning in unpractis'd hands
Scorches and burns our once serene domain.
O aching time! O moments big as years!
All as ye pass swell out the monstrous truth,
And press it so upon our weary griefs
That unbelief has not a space to breathe.'
I know of Keats' poetry, and have read most of it, but when I was writing this one, Keats wasn't on my mind. Still, I am glad my poem reminds you of one of the greatest poets of English language. It's a huge compliment. Thank you!
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