Folio 1 Of Infant Vanity Poem by Leon Moon

Had I renounced myself with the earl of childhood
At an age told so old, had I known the frustrated reason
That finds only woe, and no expressed divinity, in blood,
I would not serve as an applause for Pan and his treason
Of winds that glisten, like flames, spears of glass and ice.
The hermit hums the strophe's so pious to his youth and vice
In a cave, interconnected through tunnels, tenches, knowledge,
Smooth pebbles and wasted brands of our memories pledge
That is honed, eyes from the Earth would see, like a knee
Genuflecting to our pious ancestors, the waves of the Sea;
Never contempt (storms a genre of their own!) nor mortal,
Each mountain-top lives a life, a musical of wet smoke
Where the musician is hidden in justice and the ship's hull
Is lit by what is named intellect. I was made eternally stoke,
By the visions of the glistening pearls and globe-cut fish
That swim on the crust of my finger, another balanced dish.