Publisher's Synopsis
In sudden cloud that blotting distance outConfused the compass of the traveller's mind, Biassed his course, three times from the hill's crestTrying to descend but with no track to follow, Nor visible landmark-three times he had struckThe same sedged pool of steaming desolation, The same black monolith rearing up before it.This third time then he paused to recognizeThe Witches' Cauldron only known beforeBy hearsay, fly-like on whose rim he had crawledThree times and three times dipped to climb againIts uncouth sides, so to go crawling
