All saints revile her, and all sober men <br />Ruled by the God Apollo's golden mean - <br />In scorn of which we sailed to find her <br />In distant regions likeliest to hold her <br />Whom we desired above all things to know, <br />Sister of the mirage and echo. <br /> <br />It was a virtue not to stay, <br />To go our headstrong and heroic way <br />Seeking her out at the volcano's head, <br />Among pack ice, or where the track had faded <br />Beyond the cavern of the seven sleepers: <br />Whose broad high brow was white as any leper's, <br />Whose eyes were blue, with rowan-berry lips, <br />With hair curled honey-coloured to white hips. <br /> <br />The sap of Spring in the young wood a-stir <br />Will celebrate with green the Mother, <br />And every song-bird shout awhile for her; <br />But we are gifted, even in November <br />Rawest of seasons, with so huge a sense <br />Of her nakedly worn magnificence <br />We forget cruelty and past betrayal, <br />Heedless of where the next bright bolt may fall.<br /><br />Robert Graves<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-white-goddess/
