(a trifle)

I would like to indicate to the reader an insightful commentary on the poem, which can be found here, courtesy of Nik, at Across the Spheres.

Call no one father but the Lord.

Before the sun was up a man
Drave furrows in the earth;
The soil was orange and O his heart was black.

By evening the wild horses have come in
Trampled carrot and wheat,
And made a mockery of fence and post
And sweetened the air with their hot white breath,
White like the fumes at strange Delphi. 

Sleep has the man in thrall. His angel stands
With lance upright at foot of bed, 
And a lamp that never was lit
Nor by a mortal wind shall be put out,
Burns like the passion of a man
Who in the desert ate honey
And had a storm-god in his throat;
No, no, that lamp shall never be put out.

Between two mountains lies a valley; they
Are but the flightless earth’s wingspan,
White and stony and storm-addled.
The air being a much too heavy yoke
Has brake the sunlight’s back;
The name of father is a heavy name,
O do not seek it for yourself. 

There is no Atlas that can hold
A mustard seed of man’s desire;
For it is indivisible,
The whole is in the part
The part is in the whole;
And heavier than a black hole,
And thrice as bright as they are dark,
As oaks are in acorns
So gods are in the heart.