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Star-Winds
It is a certain hour of twilight glooms, Mostly in autumn, when the star-wind pours Down hilltop streets, deserted out-of-doors, But shewing early lamplight from snug rooms. The dead leaves rush in strange, fantastic twists, And chimney-smoke whirls round with alien grace, Heeding geometries of outer space, While Fomalhaut peers in through southward mists. This is the hour when moonstruck poets know What fungi sprout in Yuggoth, and what scents And tints of flowers fill Nithon's continents, Such as in no poor earthly garden blow. Yet for each dream these winds to us convey, A dozen more of ours they sweep away!
Antarktos
Deep in my dream the great bird whispered queerly Of the black cone amid the polar waste; Pushing above the ice-sheet lone and drearly, By storm-crazed aeons battered and defaced. Hither no living earth-shapes take their courses, And only pale auroras and faint suns Glow on that pitted rock, whose primal sources Are guessed at dimly by the Elder Ones. If men should glimpse it, they would merely wonder What tricky mound of Nature's build they spied; But the bird told of vaster parts, that under The mile-deep ice-shroud crouch and brood and bide. God help the dreamer whose mad visions shew Those dead eyes set in crystal gulfs below!
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