Poem by Leigh Gordon Giltner

To R. D. MacLean

If words were wingèd arrows tipped with flame,
Far-flying thro' the vast of time and space,
If Erato should lend me some rare grace,
Then might I dare to breathe in song your name.
Ah, Player-king, unmoved by all renown,
Acclaim and praise that wait upon your name,
You pluck a laurel from the wreath of fame,
Then, careless of the guerdon, cast it down.

1. Severance
2. Hagar
3. Spartacus
4. To One Who Sleeps
5. Under the Leaves

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