On rounded turrets rising through the visne
Of cloud-veiled aeons that the Old Ones knew:
On tablets deeply worn and fingered clean
By tentacles that dreamers seldom view;
In space-hung Yith, on clammy walls obscene
That writhe and crumble and are built anew;
There is a figure carved; but God! those eyes,
That sway on fungoid stems at leaden skies!
V
Around the place of ancient, waiting blight;
On walls of sheerest opal rearing high,
That move as planets beckon in the night
To faded realms where nothing sane can lie;
A deathless guard tramps by in feeble light,
Emitting to the stars a sobbing cry.
But on that path where footsteps should have led
There rolled an eyeless, huge and bloated head.
* * * * *