Olympus!

There, in the uppermost polarized blue,
Sits the temple pure capitals of old
On fluting columns sweeping hitherto  
Toward the interplanetary cold
Beyond the cirrus whiff drifting above
Showing the blue how deep it is by white;
That standard tint the immortals thought of
For all of their heavenly oversight
To which lowly mortals might never climb
By any other means at nearby hand
Than by ordered stanzas metering rhyme
Boldly sung throughout the pastoral land
As comets blush an orgiastic frieze
In the eternal twilight of the gods
Where meteors tinsel the olive trees
All around the pristine marble facades
Devoted to the gold of ratios
More so than to the pettiness of cash
And to every technique the poet knows,
In their lexicographical stash
Of scroll upon philological scroll,
Teasing the mind into another verse
Of gray matter atom by-product soul
Whereby glories of mentation rehearse
All to ascribe the finer works of men
To a Zephyrus chaos in the sky
As likely thought in an Argolis glen
As by a Zeus high providential eye...
 
Who has not seen fit to preserve the stones
To prove to men the gods were never myth
And were once much more than skulls and crossbones
Under languishing text and monolith.
 
Yet, the ratios by which they ruled  
Had the savages completely fooled
To be more geometrically schooled
Or suffer by being ridiculed
 
And gods were fashioned for every taste
Or recycled in superstitious haste  
Before by Romans being debased
Into the trendy Hellenistic waste,
 
Where more Euros blow...than Anemoi wind,
And men as brutes the graces rescind.