Sub Mare

 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 Algæ 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 familiears of the god.

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