To Robinson Jeffers

O Robinson, my anguished Titan! Yes,
You prophet-priest: not heart-high hands to bless
But savage voice, the curse
Of an indifferent God. My God, what worse
Than be Cassandra and no help for horror
Know? To give the gift of myrrh, what poorer
Comfort? Summon only hemlock truth, bereft
Of fairer dreams, now only nightmares left?

But scourging earth won’t do,
Nor “peace marrying pain”. No offspring there but you,
Magnificent in despair. Oh, why so blind?
Curse evil, not enshrine the good? What kind
Of vision’s that? And when
The avenging angel shall have done, what then?
Suicide? Or slowly stand
And scan with empty eyes a wasted land?