Fairweather thunder smote. Who then
(The old man I had become wondered)
From every height and hollow of the scene
Glowed like a flame cupped by seductive features?
Rarely so rosy an incognito,
A stirring, dream-flushed child—I mean,
Were there many loves or only one?
The eyeslits burned and guttered, light from lips
Broke, a voice in answer. “You
Who happen on me here, return
To the chamois pouch around my neck
That stone charm. Small but powerful,
So often shattered and made whole,
It kept me young in either element.”
Deep in the waste one room was green as water
And tall erosions rippled what it faced.
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