“The Isles of Greece, the Isles of Greece!”
The icons looking over valleys down
Beneath, and over hills across the way,
Are placed to shine like jewels on a crown.
This crown looks far to mountains where priests pray
And past the harbors where boats wait before
They take the blessings of the icons out
Across Aegean waves and past the shore
Of Ithaca dyed blue with ancient doubt,
Blood before Yahweh. Older gods brought fear
The color of vague awe. White altars came
Through centuries. Death has always swayed the sphere
Of spirit. Worshipers bring flesh and flame
The colors of those icons gilded, red.
Divinities depend upon our dread.