A few fragmentary artifacts,

 Properly belonging to the field of archeology,

 Are said to indicate

 That there must have been a time

 Before I was conscious of her.

 This theory seems flawed to me,

 Since why would I have scanned the stars

And why my endless wandering in those unfrequented regions

 Unless drawn by the pounding of her imprisoned heart?

 But she, of course, was strong enough to cut her own bonds

 An age before I found the final clue.

 So it is not She who cries for rescue in the stillness of the raven night.

Rather it is I who stands outside that sleepy country town

In hope that she will favour me

 With her most natural alchemy

And turn the base Iron Age to gold.