A missile from Orion’s belt,
Some dullard chiseled out of clay;
Perchance some treasure, Glancus owned,
Before his Furies ran away.
The throne of Neptune washed ashore
From some old chamber of the sea;
A Dryad-altar, pagan-blest,
An aerolite, lo! such it be!
Made sacred by the pounding waves,
To mark the aeons on the slopes