LAST sea-thing dredged by sailor Time from Space, 
Are you a drift Sargasso, where the West 
In halcyon calm rebuilds her fatal nest? 
Or Delos of a coming Sun-God?s race? 
Are you for Light, and trimmed, with oil in place, 
Or but a Will o? Wisp on marshy quest? 
A new demesne for Mammon to infest? 
Or lurks millennial Eden ?neath your face? 
 
The cenotaphs of species dead elsewhere 
That in your limits leap and swim and fly, 
Or trail uncanny harp-strings from your trees, 
Mix omens with the auguries that dare 
To plant the Cross upon your forehead sky, 
A virgin helpmate Ocean at your knees.