Abstract
That was when the rings had become truly golden By being remembered dimly and made bright in The Great Fable that was itself the age, the age That was not the poor first but the rich harvesting Of cold grain smitten in the wind by early stones. The light of dawn was all eaten up in hunger For beginning again, when the vivid eye lived At subsistence level; it was only later On in the day when we saw what shining was all About, and when we could afford comparisons Of this with that and then and now, and time And space lay all about us waiting to be used. We remember the first age now only to give The lie, which is its great truth, to this later one.
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