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Robert Graves - The White Goddess
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   All saints revile her, and all sober men
   Ruled by the God Apollo`s golden mean -
   In scorn of which we sailed to find her
   In distant regions likeliest to hold her
   Whom we desired above all things to know,
   Sister of the mirage and echo.

   It was a virtue not to stay,
   To go our headstrong and heroic way
   Seeking her out at the volcano`s head,
   Among pack ice, or where the track had faded
   Beyond the cavern of the seven sleepers:
   Whose broad high brow was white as any leper`s,
   Whose eyes were blue, with rowan-berry lips,
   With hair curled honey-coloured to white hips.

   The sap of Spring in the young wood a-stir
   Will celebrate with green the Mother,
   And every song-bird shout awhile for her;
   But we are gifted, even in November
   Rawest of seasons, with so huge a sense
   Of her nakedly worn magnificence
   We forget cruelty and past betrayal,
   Heedless of where the next bright bolt may fall.
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