Noon At P'stum

Lord of the Sea, we sun-filled creatures raise Our hands among the clamorous weeds,—we too. Lord of the Sun, and of the upper blue, Of all To-morrow, and all yesterdays, Here, where the thousand broken names and ways Of worship are but shards we wandered through, There is no gift to offer, or undo; There is no prayer left in us, only praise. Only to glory in this glory here, Through the dead smoke of myriad sacrifice;— To look through these blue spaces, blind and clear Even as the seaward gaze of Homer's eyes; And from uplifted heart, and cup, to pour Wine to the Unknown God.—We ask no more.