We're beset--long beset--by the gifts of many gods;
many fine gifts, but who would choose them?
Deathless, deadly gifts, but still we use them.
The grey-eyed goddess takes her father's shield,
from hatred crafted, flashing with deceit;
ambiguous thunder that makes men yield
their senses to her reason, melted by the heat
of sea-grey eyes all shining and hard
beneath a lustrous sky, but dimly starred.
Who can withstand Athena's bright blade
that turns sturdy souls into gibbering shades?
Hers is a game that they wisest have played,
winning the garlands of fools.
A sonnet for St. Benedict
5 days ago