To walk among inhuman chapels
brings pain to heart and mind.
I see the flock, their eyes diverted,
from what shines from above.
There once was stone so pure and human,
once mined from the depths of the soul;
but those are gone, cold, forgotten,
empty as our reflection.
A flicker within is a monument without,
to stand against all time;
to tower high, from richest soils,
to live and never die.
Those times are gone, but still exist,
though hidden under moss;
the tree, the church, the barn and stable,
their shadows still are cast.
The masses they shall perish, and they shall
turn to dust, while some will tread upon them,
a phoenix, fire, wings of gold,
to carry on again.
Remembering Aleister Crowley
(October 12, 1875–December 1, 1947)
Remembering Roy Campbell (October 2, 1901–April 22, 1957)
Remembering T. S. Eliot:
September 26, 1888–January 4, 1965
La Seconde Venue païenne de Yeats
A Yankee Poet in Greenwich Village
Remembering William Butler Yeats:
June 13, 1865–January 28, 1939
Whitsuntide: Sacred Fire, Divine Gifts, & the Quest for the Holy Grail
The Most Dangerous Game: Capital Riddles in Western Culture