Among the Gods
Within the grated dungeon of the eye
The old gods, shaggy with gray lichen, sit
Like fragments of the antique masonry
Of heaven, a patient thunder in their stare.
Huge blocks of language, all my quarried love,
They justify, and not in random poems,
But shapes of things interior to Time,
Hewn out of chaos when the Pure was plain.
Sister, my bride, who were both cloud and bird
When Zeus came down and in a shower of sexual gold,
Listen! we make a world! I hear the sound
Of Matter pouring through eternal forms.
Stanley Kunitz [1905-2006], Selected Poems, 1958
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