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 underwave, 'Mid these things older than the names they have, These things that are familiars of the god. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...ON SEEING THE ELGIN MARBLES by JOHN KEATS INCIDENTS IN THE LIFE OF MY UNCLE ARLY by EDWARD LEAR THE WHITE CHARGER by ABUS SALT EPIGRAM by DECIMUS MAGNUS AUSONIUS REBECCA; WHO SLAMMED DOORS FOR FUN AND PERISHED MISERABLY by HILAIRE BELLOC |