Bellerophon

     I

     Maimed, beggared, grey; seeking an alms; with nod
     Of palsy doing task of thanks for bread;
     Upon the stature of a God,
     He whom the Gods have struck bends low his head.

     II

     Weak words he has, that slip the nerveless tongue
     Deformed, like his great frame:  a broken arc: 
     Once radiant as the javelin flung
     Right at the centre breastplate of his mark.

     III

     Oft pausing on his white-eyed inward look,
     Some undermountain narrative he tells,
     As gapped by Lykian heat the brook
     Cut from the source that in the upland swells.

     IV

     The cottagers who dole him fruit and crust
     With patient inattention hear him prate: 
     And comes the snow, and comes the dust,
     Comes the old wanderer, more bent of late.

     V

     A crazy beggar grateful for a meal
     Has ever of himself a world to say. 
     For them he is an ancient wheel
     Spinning a knotted thread the livelong day.

     VI

     He cannot, nor do they, the tale connect;
     For never singer in the land had been
     Who him for theme did not reject: 
     Spurned of the hoof that sprang the Hippocrene.

     VII

     Albeit a theme of flame to bring them straight
     The snorting white-winged brother of the wave,
     They hear him as a thing by fate
     Cursed in unholy babble to his grave.

     VIII

     As men that spied the wings, that heard the snort,
     Their sires have told; and of a martial prince
     Bestriding him; and old report
     Speaks of a monster slain by one long since.

     IX

     There is that story of the golden bit
     By Goddess given to tame the lightning steed: 
     A mortal who could mount, and sit
     Flying, and up Olympus midway speed.

     X

     He rose like the loosed fountain’s utmost leap;
     He played the star at span of heaven right o’er
     Men’s heads:  they saw the snowy steep,
     Saw the winged shoulders:  him they saw not more.

     XI

     He fell:  and says the shattered man, I fell: 
     And sweeps an arm the height an eagle wins;
     And in his breast a mouthless well
     Heaves the worn patches of his coat of skins.

     XII

     Lo, this is he in whom the surgent springs
     Of recollections richer than our skies
     To feed the flow of tuneful strings,
     Show but a pool of scum for shooting flies.

     Phaethon—­attemptedin the galliambic measure