Polyphony beyond his baton’s thrust.
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ould Crispin stem verboseness in the sea, The old age of a watery realist, Triton, dissolved in shifting diaphanesOf blue and green? A wordy, watery ageThat whispered to the sun’s compassion, madeA convocation, nightly, of the sea-stars, And on the dopping foot-ways of the moonLay grovelling. Triton incomplicate with thatWhich made him Triton, nothing left of him,Except in faint, memorial gesturings, That were like arms and shoulders in the waves,Here, something in the rise and fall of windThat seemed hallucinating horn, and here, A sunken voice, both of rememberingAnd of forgetfulness, in alternate strain.
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