It is, and is not, I am sane enough,

Since you have come this place has hovered round me,

This fabrication built of autumn roses,

Then there’s a goldish colour, different.

And one gropes in these things as delicate

Algae reach up and out beneath

Pale slow green surgings of the under-wave,

’Mid these things older than the names they have,

These things that are familiars of the god.