He turned to poetry at the last, Not for the coldness of his cell, But that the heat of some divinity, Drawing him, like Marsyas, Out from the sheath of his limbs, Beckoned, An old god with an old injunction, Old inspiration to turn and turn Like the Homeric man he was Or to speak in dithyrambics As in the afternoon with Phaedrus. The sharpness rising in his blood No thought could solve In which all might be dissolved Dissolved the hope in reason But not the words That came still in steady flow. They came out row by row. Wisdom there, yet nothing to know. You came Rowing your granary-oar to Elysium, Proud as Achilles at the death-verge, Needing to speak as you have, Needing to say, “Ananke!” Needing to hymn, Even if you spoke as you always did, Not as in a law-court, but very low, Saying this new thing exhilarating Our ears: hymning With a swagger none can know… … HERE WE GO!
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