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Equinox I (04).pdf

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XXVI<br />

SIR PALAMEDE the Saracen<br />

Hath gotten him a swift canoe,<br />

Paddled by stalwart South Sea men.<br />

They cleave the oily breasts of blue,<br />

Straining toward the westering disk<br />

Of the tall sun; they battle through<br />

Those weary days; the wind is brisk;<br />

The stars are clear; the moon is high.<br />

Now, even as a white basilisk<br />

That slayeth all men with his eye,<br />

Stands up before them tapering<br />

The cone of speechless sanctity.<br />

Up, up its slopes the pilgrims swing,<br />

Chanting their pagan gramarye<br />

Unto the dread volcano-king.<br />

“Now, then, by Goddes reed!” quod he,<br />

“Behold the secret of my quest<br />

In this far-famed stability!<br />

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