I stand here at the crossroads
near the gray strip of beach
among these windblown pines.

Thoughts move through my mind
like clouds through a calm sky—
slower than life, unhurried.

I grant rest to the traveler:
he throws himself down at my feet
and dreams his way through sorrow.

In grimmest dog-day heat
my ancient fount still brims
with cold unsullied water,

while night by moonless night
these two eyes chill as stars
gleam out from the worn mask.

Question not what I am.
Solitary in this place
I lead strange lives elsewhere

and thus am reckoned god:
“god of the rocks and pines”
is how you might conceive it . . .

Worship me then, if you choose,
as one who knows and waits.
The rest will follow after.

Frederick Morgan

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This article originally appeared in The New Criterion, Volume 12 Number 1, on page 58
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