Writing In The Early Morning,
So Still And Silent Are These Strange Hours,
That A Kind Of Unreality Sets In,
Or Should I Say A Different Kind Of Reality,
From Apollo-‘s Cool And Rational Light Of Modern Day,
For This Hour, To Me,
Becomes The Ancient Darker Realm Of Dionysus,
With All His Retinue Of Maenads,
Who Dance About My Mind In Ecstasy,
Throwing Constraint To The Winds.
My World Thus Becomes His Island,
Where Thou And I Wander,
Beloved Soul, Hand In Hand,
Along Its Wild-Thyme Mountain Paths,
In Flowing Garbs Wreathed With Berries,
Our Heads Crowned With Ivy,
Stopping To Gaze Across Its Wide And Verdant Valleys,
Finding Its Sacred Groves,
Its Hidden Pools And Sanctuaries,
Laughing In Joy And Wonder At The Beauty Of It All,
Which Only Imagination Can Bring To Life
In, What Is Otherwise, This Far Too-Apollonian,
Too Serious And Much Constrained Modern World
In Which There Are So Few Silent Places,
And So Few Strange Hours To Enjoy