The Winged Beetle

153 PROLOGUE TO RODIN IN RIME Nor I can give, nor you can take ; endures The simple truth of me that this is yours Is not the music mingled with the form When all the heavens break in blind black storm ? Are we not veiled as Gods, and cruel as they, Smiting our brilliance on the shuddering clay ? Silence and darkness cover us, confirm Our splendour to its unappointed term : For all the mean homunculi that dance Around us shudder at our brilliance. These puppets perish in the good grand glare, Our sworded sunlight in the boundless air ! These bats need cloisters ; these tame birds a cage ; How should they know the Masters of the Age ? Or understand when the Archangels cry Adoring us “ 'Έλλην κατ’ άστερ ‘έι ” ?