Some Pilgrim farer left behind.
Out where the shallows turn to blood,
Lost in the trailing weeds and mud,
A crimson crescent blinks at me—
A vagabond who loves the sea—
While mythic muse with ancient loom,
Who knows where Clytie’s flowers bloom,
Has wrought of weeds and tinsel string,
A garment suited to a king.
And look! some oracle of time—