Before The Golden Bridle

He pauses at the foot of Mount Helicon,
And tosses back his head to gaze upon
The Muses' own mountain,
The source of poetry's fountain.
He pauses for a long time, does Bellerophon.

Then he shakes his head and begins climbing again.
Posideon's son, a lord and demigod among men,
Has come to capture a horse
Who is lord of heaven's course,
Pegausus, Medusa-born, who until now no pen

Has ever held, nor lord wreaked his will upon.
But still, holding a golden bridle comes Bellerophon,
Head bowed as he toils,
His hands threading through the bridle's coils,
His gaze steady as he looks to the top of Helicon.

And there is the one he has long sought,
The winged horse who has never by man been caught.
He shines and gleams so white
That he outshines the stars at night:
Pegasus, who all poets and all dancers has taught.

He turns his head to look down at Bellerophon,
And his nostrils flare as he flies from Helicon,
With a single flap of his wide wings.
Air through his feathers like an arrow sings
As he flies out, away, the dancing air dancing upon.

Bellerophon pauses for a long moment, head bowed,
As though thinking better than to try to tame a cloud.
Can he bring down one like Pegasus,
Whose feathers not even the wind can muss,
Who is the proudest horse of all, with reason to be proud?

But the bridle in his hands tells him; he turns from Helicon,
And begins hastening down the trail, down upon
Pegasus's cloudy trail.
He will bring the lordly wings that sail
Down to earth, and make known the name of Bellerophon.

He hastens away, and in the sky's rafters
There comes a sighing as he goes after
The one who, though tamed by gold,
Is not one such as man can hold,
Who will later kick him off to the sound of gods' laughter.