All those who in roaring triumph died Must live in us, and, living, must suffer still Some bright ache of sacrifice enforced By a doubtful will. Aim no spade at that 5 Chaste composure gods guard in forgetfulness. Remember the Fates' forgiveless testament, Nailing Prometheus to his crag at dawn For high hubris that was man's first sin; Or nodding Narcissus, winking at his twin 10 Among gold flowers loaded with their own sweet dew, Until beauty like a surgeon's knife Had sawn him out of life to adorn a pool.
From the collection "XXX Sonnets"
Written by Gregg Glory [Gregg G. Brown]
More information available on gregglory.com.