The Dream-Cast Realm

Asclepius, one cannot build from sand, Such light and shifting grains as mortals be. The wind and tide shall warp what e’er is planned, Foundations fade before the pounding sea. And yet, when grains of sand flow through my hand, I smile at warmth and richness I know not. Through falling columns have the sea I scanned, As through a fog, and this the vision brought. Once, weary, weary, weary on the sea, One weary, wandering sailor, long away. ‘Tis torpor, tempest, tedium, weary he, When wind-whipped waves whisk words on salty spray. “Rain-hardened sailor, welcome now, The ocean storms here mend their ways. No lonesome mists embrace the prow, Here glegful otters tend their bays. This oaken isle, this Avalon, O’er the futile, beating sea; This dream-cast realm, this jewel at dawn, Where thought is regal, talent free. And here beyond the reach of might, Where ancient tribal flaws decay, With cobbled streets and spires alight, New thought, new form, new love, hold sway.” When whence these words surveyed had he, Before his eyes a visage be. ‘Twas older than eternity, That face that sank beneath the sea.