When I was sad so long ago, I read Greek
When I was sad so long ago I would sit upon a sunny porch and read Greek. Perhaps it was not so long ago but only a little while. Whatever time that time was, it was in my sadness when Greek would speak to me. For I was sad but in his everlasting words Homer was happy; and I could drink in his little phrases, and was met on my sunny porch with his loud-roaring sea and rosy-fingered dawn.
When then in the time I was sad, and the sun on my sunny porch would begin to sleep, Homer would speak of the rich wine-dark night; and in the loud-clamoring of the storms in the wine-dark of the midnight watch, the flashing teeth of the skies became but the dazzling-bolt of that cloud-gatherer, Zeus. So, when my mind was aloof under thunder and blankets, when I alone was lonely in suffering this war-like sky, Greek said, as the maestro of Homer's tongue, be still. This is merely bright-eyed Athena, peering into the night.
When again, when I was sad and would read Greek as I was assigned, when skies were streaked with that speech of bright and jagged heaven; those moments were memorial. Every page-turn of the lexicon was a little infinite moment, where I became lost in an exotic and lingual elliptic. I would orbit another time. So that when I was sad so long ago, sitting upon sunny porch or under smoke-dark skies I would find, I could no longer be in that moment sad, for I was not I but Homer's rhyme.
When then in the time I was sad, and the sun on my sunny porch would begin to sleep, Homer would speak of the rich wine-dark night; and in the loud-clamoring of the storms in the wine-dark of the midnight watch, the flashing teeth of the skies became but the dazzling-bolt of that cloud-gatherer, Zeus. So, when my mind was aloof under thunder and blankets, when I alone was lonely in suffering this war-like sky, Greek said, as the maestro of Homer's tongue, be still. This is merely bright-eyed Athena, peering into the night.
When again, when I was sad and would read Greek as I was assigned, when skies were streaked with that speech of bright and jagged heaven; those moments were memorial. Every page-turn of the lexicon was a little infinite moment, where I became lost in an exotic and lingual elliptic. I would orbit another time. So that when I was sad so long ago, sitting upon sunny porch or under smoke-dark skies I would find, I could no longer be in that moment sad, for I was not I but Homer's rhyme.
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