By twisted talons of archaean birth

On rows of slimy pillars stretching past

A daemon-fane that echoes with mad mirth.

And in that realm sane eyes may never see—

For black light streams from skies of ebony.

VII

On those queer mountains which hold back the horde

That lie in waiting in their mouldy graves,

Who groan and mumble to a hidden lord

Still waiting for the time-worn key that saves;