What is this spear, this burnished Arrow in the deep waters That is not quenched by them Until it has found its mark? What is this beating of wings In the formless heart of the tempest? This wakening of a sun That was not wakened before?

They have dragged you down from the sky And broken you with an ocean Because you carried the day, Phaëton, charioteer. But still you loose from the cloud The matched desires of your horses And sow on the ripened earth The quickened, the piercing flame.