Chapter IV

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!