On the Eve of Battle - Sonnet 37

Relay the message hence, and sound the horn,

The crass and brazen cannon of the will,

To rouse the drowsy poets now to fill

The destiny of all those who are born

For nobler stock: to herald in an age

Of tearing down the mark of Asherah

And use her hand to brace their pasture. Ah, 

What temperance from the novice and the sage;

Methinks I grow too old for fattened calf,

So would my forge then craft a golden one

To linger on in hunger? Once begun,

There is but one to taper down the half

We covet, only then to lose as soon

The aging twilight in some distant moon.