I set to write a poem here,
To fill with measured, metered lines
The blank horizon of a page
That's unsubmissive to my mind.
I have no Muses to invoke
To aid me in this toilsome task,
To grant my pen effulgent wings,
Like Hermes' shoes, if I but ask.
The gods of old are silent now,
And truth be told, they never spoke;
The genius of the poet blind
Alone was needed to invoke.
He took his gift, God-given grace,
To speak, to write, in words like gold
That turned themselves to miracles
In hearing of those men of old.
Yet I've one Spirit to invoke,
Thrice-holy and immortal, He--
But does He deign to bless with grace
Such rank and dogg'rel lines as these?
No gift like Homer's bear I here,
But I've a blessing more than he:
I know my Muse, and He knows me,
In word and breath, eternally.
Note to My Readers: from mid-June to mid-August (6/18 - 8/20), I will be taking a summer break from posting new articles for my Thursday and Friday slots. This will only affect my Thursday series on the global growth of Christianity, and my Friday series, the "Theological Bestiary" of birds, both of which will resume in late August. During the summer, I'll be dusting off some of my best essays from the first few years of this blog (a decade ago), as well as my verse play "Thus Ends the World," and re-posting them in the Thursday and Friday slots. All other weekdays will continue to feature new material throughout the summer.