I began composing the next poem, the one that was to be written next. Not the last poem of those I had read, but the poem written in the head of someone who may never have existed but who had certainly written another poem nonetheless, and just never had the chance to commit it to ink and the page.

All that we call sacred history attests that the birth of a poet is the principal event in chronology.

At its best, fantasy rewards the reader with a sense of wonder about what lies within the heart of the commonplace world. The greatest tales are told over and over, in many ways, through centuries. Fantasy changes with the changing times, and yet it is still the oldest kind of tale in the world, for it began once upon a time, and we haven't heard the end of it yet.

The value of the myth is that it takes all the things we know and restores to them the rich significance which has been hidden by ‘the veil of familiarity.’ The child enjoys his cold meat, otherwise dull to him, by pretending it is buffalo, just killed with his own bow and arrow. And the child is wise. The real meat comes back to him more savory for having been dipped in a story…by putting bread, gold, horse, apple, or the very roads into a myth, we do not retreat from reality: we rediscover it.

Poetry creates the myth, the prose writer draws its portrait.

Lark’s Song

That child who from Diana’s thought is born
A huntress swift, who doth the world adorn
With strength and passion worthy of the Green
May wax, and one day rise to be a queen.

That child who in the eye of Phoebus grows
Of visage fair, that none would dare oppose
May in her hand hold light and glory too,
And to the Light hold sternly staunch and true.

That child who with the face of Venus smiles,
Will bear a heart of mischief and of wiles,
And may in time love’s faithful bonds fulfil
While bending lesser hearts unto her will.

That child who with Athena’s grace doth move
May to all eyes her worldly wisdom prove
And make right wise and fulsome use thereof
To measure all who seek to win her love.

That child who with grim Circe’s tongue foretells
Enmeshing faithful hearts within her spells
By dint of sly mendacity and guile,
All innocence and virtue may defile.

That child who by her cunning doth connive
May by fair Tyche’s fortune wax and thrive
And come in time to sit upon a throne;
Or fail and fall, forsaken and alone.

That child may choose to hark to glory’s call
And shine in splendour, loved by one and all;
Or cleave to darkness, hated and reviled:
Chance crafts the fate of every fate-touched child.