Athena

The pathway to my heart is tangled.
And the hand that brings to me
The branch to plant the olive-tree
Is blocked by vines – is blocked and strangled.
The chambers of dissent and conflict
Where I have spent my youth gave way
To my limits only. Today
I am a shade, and I inflict
My paper blows upon that belt
Of vines around my heart, to preen
It open, so the spot I felt
Was in me once will now be seen,
Where the morning stars still melt
Above the apple-trees pristine.