The Passage of the Marshes

The cold hard lands
they bites our hands,
they gnaws our feet.
The rocks and stones
are like old bones
all bare of meat.
But stream and pool
is wet and cool:
so nice for feet!
And now we wish----

Alive without breath;
as cold as death;
never thirsting, ever drinking; clad in mail, never clinking.
Drowns on dry land,
thinks an island

is a mountain;
thinks a fountain
is a puff of air.
So sleek, so fair!
What a joy to meet!
We only wish
to catch a fish,
so juicy-sweet!


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