comedy

the poem starts at night in a dark wood
we know from that a madness lurks within
such places are a long way from the good

entangled in the world of darkest sin
the writer faces allegorical sights
dragged up from his soul's old waste-bin

the story is well known we see false lights
the broken gate tells us that all hope is lost
down we all go into the endless nights

no need to tell the tale nor at what cost
the poet and his guide returned to day
past deepest hell not hot but rimed with frost

the tale is one well told or sung the lay
of a wise man who knew that when his joys
at home or exile meant the things to say

to hosts and friends had to be more than toys
for what matters that emperor and pope
would keep their quarrel up like angry boys

so did it matter in the scale that urgent hope
that saw all that he hated down in hell
but kept his feet always on upward slope

we ask this day because we face in fact
the coming once again of those old jars
in which the message can't survive intact

with the return under the signs of mars
of all that signified truth in the earliest act
and rejoiced at last when back out under stars