The Stirrup Cup


Alack! ’Tis a mad world, with mad gods above it,
Who weep for it, laugh for it, loathe it and love it,
Creating in jest, in a phantasy breaking,
Like petulant children, the toys of their making.
When they struck from their souls the hot spark of our being,
It flashed from their clutches beyond their foreseeing.
They dreamed their gods’ dreams, and beheld in the vision
Their toy puppets dance on their string of derision.
They worked their gods’ work, all unwotting the sequel;
We are soul of Their Soul and inherently equal.
Though they rive the pole star from the chains of its mooring,
The soul is beyond them, supreme and enduring;
Above and beyond their desire and endeavor,
It sweeps in wide circles for ever and ever.
Then, here’s to Our Gods, though they bend us and break us,
Though they torture and slay, yet they cannot unmake us.
And here’s to the grace of the cup that they pour us,
The Black Stirrup Cup for the journey before us;
Drink deeply and pledge them, resigned, or defying,
A Health to Our Gods! We salute them in dying.


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