Conrad and Boykin, on the lunar mountain,
Stretching their Earth limbs saw the mother planet.
And the next day (as here we count the hours),
Rising, they drove into the shuddering soil
Signal posts, and broadcast: "We are here.
The air is heavier than the whiskered fellow
Said in the book, though nothing breathes alive.
In the last hours the machine purred on as quiet
As a stroked cat. Tomorrow we set out
To spy the land, toward the hollow there
In the Serene Sea, the name upon the map.
Good night. Good night." On the sixth day thereafter,
Their paths divergent for more fruitful finding,
Conrad alone, on a long-shadowed bottom
Of the Serene Sea, with the sky jet black but lustrous,
Through which the stars shone bright as points of flame
Hot through the furnace cracks in a dark cellar—
And the Earth-globe white across a quarter heaven—
Saw on the plain a monstrous figure prowling
Slow through the shadows that the peaks laid down.
(So swore he on the Holy Book when come
In the august judges' presence later.) Turning,
Hand put on mouth in horror he skulked away
A few steps shaking, and heard the grate of shale
Sent sliding by his foot. The farther tread
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