In Cladich on a domed isle,
Near no settlement at all,
A great tower points the moon,
Brought whole from west a mile,
From the cool volcanic wall,
Obsidian-hewn.
What can it wish but for the war
That raves and spits on the sea,
And fills the sky with sound,
Arrive at its door,
And set its rigid form free,
And leave its causeway drowned?
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