In the old torment of the earth When the fires were cooling and disposing themselves Into granite and limestone and serpentine and shale, It is possible to imagine that, under yellowish chemical clouds, The molten froth, having burned long enough, Was already dreaming of release, And that the dream, dimly But with increasingly distinctness, took the form Of water, and that it was then, still more dimly, that it imagined The dark green skin and opal green flesh of cucumbers.
