II When Death was young and bleaching bones were few, A moving hill against the risen day The dinosaur at morning made his way, And dropped his dung along the blazing dew; Trees with no name that now are agate grew Lushly beside him in the steamy clay; He woke and hungered, rose and stalked his prey, And slept contented, in a world he knew. In punctual season, with the race in mind, His consort held aside her heavy tail, And took the seed; and heard the seed confined Roar in her womb; and made a nest to hold A hatched-out conqueror . . . but to no avail: The veined and fertile eggs are long since cold.