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 thereβs a goldish colour, different.
And one gropes in these things as delicate AlgΓ¦ reach up and out, beneath Pale slow green surgings of the underwave, βMid these things older than the names they have, These things that are familiears of the god.