IN DEDICATION

All saints revile her, and all sober men 
Ruled by the God Apollo's golden mean - 
In scorn of which I sailed to find her 
In distant regions likeliest to hold her 
Whom I desired above all things to know, 
Sister of the mirage and echo. 

It was a virtue not to stay, 
To go my headstrong and heroic way 
Seeking her out at the volcano's head, 
Among pack ice, or where the track had faded 
Beyond the cavern of the seven sleepers: 
Whose broad high brow was white as any leper's, 
Whose eyes were blue, with rowan-berry lips, 
With hair curled honey-coloured to white hips. 

The sap of Spring in the young wood a-stir 
Will celebrate with green the Mother, 
And every song-bird shout awhile for her; 
But I am gifted, even in November 
Rawest of seasons, with so huge a sense 
Of her nakedly worn magnificence 
I forget cruelty and past betrayal, 
Heedless of where the next bright bolt may fall.