Then was my neophyte，

　　Child in white blood bent on its knees

　　Under the bell of rocks，

　　Ducked in the twelve， disciple seas

　　The winder of the water-clocks

　　Calls a green day and night.

　　My sea hermaphrodite，

　　Snail of man in His ship of fires

　　That burn the bitten decks，

　　Knew all His horrible desires

　　The climber of the water sex

　　Calls the green rock of light.

　　Who in these labyrinths，

　　This tidethread and the lane of scales，

　　Twine in a moon-blown shell，

　　Escapes to the flat cities' sails

　　Furled on the fishes' house and hell，

　　Nor falls to His green myths？

　　Stretch the salt photographs，

　　The landscape grief， love in His oils

　　Mirror from man to whale

　　That the green child see like a grail

　　Through veil and fin and fire and coil

　　Time on the canvas paths.

　　He films my vanity.

　　Shot in the wind， by tilted arcs，

　　Over the water come

　　Children from homes and children's parks

　　Who speak on a finger and thumb，

　　And the masked， headless boy.

　　His reels and mystery

　　The winder of the clockwise scene

　　Wound like a ball of lakes

　　Then threw on that tide-hoisted screen

　　Love's image till my heartbone breaks

　　By a dramatic sea.

　　Who kills my history？

　　The year-hedged row is lame with flint，

　　Blunt scythe and water blade.

　　'Who could snap off the shapeless print

　　From your to-morrow-treading shade

　　With oracle for eye？'

　　Time kills me terribly.

　　'Time shall not murder you，' He said，

　　'Nor the green nought be hurt；

　　Who could hack out your unsucked heart，

　　O green and unborn and undead？'

　　I saw time murder me.