Man’s soul, the chiefest flower of all we know, Is not the toy of Malice or of Sport. It is not set apart to be betrayed, Or gulled to its undoing, left to dash Its hopeless head against this rock’s exception, No water for its thirst, no Life to feed it, No law to guide it, though this universe Is under Law, no God to mark its steps, Except the God of worlds and suns and stars, Who loves it not, loves worlds and suns and stars, And them alone, and leaves the soul to pass Unfathered--lets me have a madman’s dream And gives it such reality that I Take fire and light the world, convincing eyes Left foolish to believe. It cannot be.... Go write what I have told you, come what will I’m going to the catacombs to pray. MARSYAS Pallas Athena in an hour of ease From guarding states and succoring the wise, Pressed wistfully her lips against a flute Made by a Phrygian youth from resonant wood Cut near Sangarius. Upon a bank Made sweet by daisies and anemone She sat with godly wisdom exercised Blowing her breath against the stubborn tube That it might answer and vibrate in song. But while she played, down-looking, she beheld A serpent’s eyes, which by the water’s edge Lay coiled among the reeds, as if aware Of the divinity that filled the place. Then Athena saw her image in the cove, Where like a silver mirror, motionless Sangarius lay, and seeing her own face Thus suddenly, was stricken with surprise Of her fair forehead wrinkled, and her lips Pursed and distorted as she strove to curb The resisting instrument. So with a smile, A little laugh, which brought her beauty back, And gilded like a gradual burst of sun The water where the charmed serpent lay Lifting his head up to the living warmth, She threw the flute down, and Olympus way Vanished, from sight.