Orpheus Died Several Times and Could not Save Himself
The intent is feeble like a hyacinth
In rocks along a mountain path where feet
Can crush. The intent is not a marble plinth
Upholding steadfast Zeus. Intention, neat
As it might be, is not the same as gain.
Philosophy is purer than the blooms
But does not guarantee that present pain
It will be replaced with calm. Unnoticed dooms
Are hovering. The myths we tell our hearts
Are only tales. They seem to offer truths
And even some salvation. All their arts
And beauties we pass on to girls and youths,
But myths are only literature. They save
Themselves, retold, but we go to the grave.