Spenserian Sonnet in Iambic Pentameter

In ancient tides that rise and fall, and shores
Of sands bespangled quartz and jasper stones,
Therein the mystery of Time is borne
By generations on forgotten roads,

Who navigated Neptune’s swarthy bones,
Oft truculent from depth to shoal. Prodigious
Metropoles were built and forged with Thrones
That rulèd over gods and men. Religious

Oblations holocausted in the mist of
Prepared propitious places made of loam
And clay: these temples summon forth a tryst and
Responding vagrant pilgrims voyage home.

Sans sacred call, profaned and cowering,
Await we Saturn’s sate devouring.