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 Algae reach up and out beneath Pale slow green surgings of the under-wave, 'Mid these things older than the names they have, These things that are familiars of the god.