I fear not the raft of styx, messenger of wrath brought quick.
I fear not the battle’s pitch, flood, famine, or pestilence,
Pale osiris, eris, nyx, demon furies, and the succubus.
Give me not nepenthe nor opiates, all they do is enervate.
My will is epic. Bitterness bestows me gruesome strength.
I fear neither death nor judgement, I fear never having lived:
A small room, a mighty chalice. The judge who points and says,
I filled your cup to overfloweth. And all you did was take a sip.
We need not caverns to grow.
We love the dark loam surrounding us with nowhere else to go,
No more than a whisper or a moment’s glance, no more space than a shifting of an elbow,
Inspires us to crack our seeds and grow.
Laugh out the meager penance of their days
Who dare not share with us the breath released,
The substance drilled and spent beyond repair
For golden, or the shadow of gold hair.Distinctly praise the years, whose volatile
Blamed bleeding hands extend and thresh the height
The imagination spans beyond despair,
Outpacing bargain, vocable and prayer.For the Marriage of Faustus and Helen, Hart Crane
