I could find
the black of ravens in your hair,
the whiteness of milk
in your smooth limbs,
and in your lips the red of blood,
blood of an unmourned calf
staining the snow.
I could catch you by the ears
and court you with sly taunts
of impotence--
invite you into my wicker dwelling,
my sweet son of Uisneach,
to help me forget an old and withered king.
I could command you: "go,"
and come with you and your brothers
to a harsh land
of dark glens and the raven's call;
I could whisper softly
to forget your swords, and shields,
and battle-mates,
to lie here under the stars
forever...
But no.
I look away from the raven,
the snow,
the dead and steaming flesh,
my heart's desire.
Wisdom is dearly bought.