It is, and is not, I am sane enough, <br />Since you have come this place has hovered round me, <br />This fabrication built of autumn roses, <br />Then there's a goldish colour, different. <br /> <br />And one gropes in these things as delicate <br />Algæ reach up and out, beneath <br />Pale slow green surgings of the underwave, <br />'Mid these things older than the names they have, <br />These things that are familiears of the god.<br /><br />Ezra Pound<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/sub-mare/
