The whole stale globe is fixed And finished. No spastic blanks Fringe or freak our maps. All we had desired, in one Cloudy shell is clamped, a cataract Eye clubbed by interior damps. Round and round a blue wash basin rolls The marble of our wants, our soul. How, inside this stormy island shell, Dare we pip a pearl? Discovery but brushes back the curls From brooding brow's proscenium to Hell. The conquistador's poise or plastic pose Can but woodenly suppose our more Consummate imaginings of rose.