Figure C3 SULPHUR

Down a steep stair we fly the feath’ry stench

In vain, for in the stony room below

Wrung from the rock by stubborn nature’s clench

We see a vein of brimstone all aglow

Its creeping azure flames can barely show

Through the vile fumes, like unto an egg

All rotted green inside its shell of snow

Or as salt fish turned foul within its keg

So to the northern door we turn an eager leg.