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Poetic Platypus Fragment

Pleasant are the meads of Oxenford in Spring where clerks in ancient robes tell tales and dream. And one, whose fathers had been kings, sang this song to deer that grazed. In idle hour, an old Phoenician listening wrote it down, 'twixt thoughts of swaying cedars that are no more.


Twelve are the hours of the Day and Night,

Twelve the Months of the rounded Year.

Twelve are the Apostles of our Christ,

and Twelve the Battles of the King.


 On Badon's hill did Arthur wear

The Queen of Heaven on his shield,

Forth in the front of war until

"They break," quoth he

and Glorious Dawn blazed her corona

O're his head:

a terror to the sons of Horse

Who from the Maiden's image fled.


The Cymry ruled for fifty years

the Isle of the Britons bless'd,

Till Medraud raised his banner 'i the North,

and then the Bear came charging forth,

to fight and die and live once more

When Saxon dragons thunder.


These words did Talliesin sing,

Wrapped in the splendor of his Dream,

While London blazed in Saxon fires,

and leaguered Slavs at Kyiv's gates

Raised hands up to the unknown Jew

Who would arise to free them. 

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