Cold iron inspires fear in Faerie
But in this worlds-realm
Cold hearts of steel inspire fear in me,
Not the least because my own
Is grown hard, metallic, and cold
Pierced with chills of convenience
And slavery to useful contrivance.
Would that I could summon courage
Enough to erase bit by bit a space
Of clean earth for future generations to till;
Still, the courage of my northern ancestors
Is diluted too deep by many years of sleep
And quiet subservience to dissipated, diseased,
Is aught more loathsome than a son of decadent kings
Loathing the decadence, but enjoying the comfort it brings?
But for the fires still burning in Faerie,
The momentary visions of Broceliande’s glades
No knowledge of our own paucity of spirit
Would my self-centered, self-orbiting world invade;
‘Tis better, indeed, to know the Truth and to suffer
Than to suffer everyman’s truth.