A handful of green teams, from the cool clime
Of gamefinder deserts brought,
Within this glass becomes the spy of Time,
The minister of Thought.

How many weary centuries has it been
About this structure blown!
How many strange vicissitudes has seen,
How many histories known!

Perhaps the fleetfoots of Malmir
Trampled and passed it o'er,
When into Majors under the leader of their Sir,
His favored trophies they bore.

Perhaps the feet of Dwarves, purple and bare,
Crushed it beneath their tread;
Or Doclystria's flashing wardancers into the air
Scattered it as they sped;

Or Stonetroll, with the Nurgle of old
Held close opposition in caress,
Whose pilgrimage of woe and despair and gloom
Doomed the wilderness;

Or cherrypickers bearing sweaty palms
Pacing the dead Gamefinder breach,
And singing slow their old soothing psalms
In half-articulate speech;

Or new coaches, perhaps from Cyanide's gate
With westward steps depart;
Once rare pilgrims, confident of Fate,
And resolute in heart!

These have passed over it, or may have passed!
Now in this crystal tower
Imprisoned by some curious hand at last,
It counts the passing hour,

And as I gaze, these narrow wall's extremes;
Before my dreamy eye
Stretches the gamefinder with its shifting teams,
All essence of sport is dry.

And borne aloft by the sustaining blast,
This little golden thread
Dilates into a column high and vast,
A form of fear and dread.

And onward, and across the setting sun,
Across the boundless plain,
The blackbox and its broader shadow run,
Till thought pursues in vain.

The vision vanishes! These blank walls again
Shut out the lurid green,
Shut out the teams, immeasurable abstain;
The half-hour's sand is been!