Through the ghoul-guarded gateways of slumber,
past the wan-mooned abysses of night,
I have lived o'er my lives without number,
I have sounded all things with my sight;
and I struggle and shriek ere the daybreak, being driven to madness with fright.
I have whirled with the earth at the dawning,
when the sky was a vaporous flame;
I have seen the dark universe yawning
where the black planets roll without aim,
where they roll in their horror unheeded, without knowledge or lustre or name.
I had drifted o'er seas without ending,
under sinister grey-clouded skies,
that the many-forked lightning is rending,
that resound with hysterical cries;
with the moans of invisible daemons, that out of the green waters rise.
I have plunged like a deer through the arches
of the hoary primoridal grove,
where the oaks feel the presence that marches,
and stalks on where no spirit dares rove,
and I flee from a thing that surrounds me, and leers through dead branches above.
I have stumbled by cave-ridden mountains
that rise barren and bleak from the plain,
I have drunk of the fog-foetid fountains
that ooze down to the marsh and the main;
and in hot cursed tarns I have seen things, I care not to gaze on again.
I have scanned the vast ivy-clad palace,
I have trod its untenanted hall,
Where the moon rising up from the valleys
Shows the tapestried things on the wall;
Strange figures discordantly woven, that I cannot endure to recall.
I have peered from the casements in wonder
At the mouldering meadows around,
At the many-roofed village laid under
The curse of a grave-girdled ground;
And from rows of white urn-carven marble, I listen intently for sound.
I have haunted the tombs of the ages,
I have flown on the pinions of fear,
Where the smoke-belching Erebus rages;
Where the jokulls loom snow-clad and drear:
And in realms where the sun of the desert consumes what it never can cheer.
I was old when the pharaohs first mounted
The jewel-decked throne by the Nile;
I was old in those epochs uncounted
When I, and I only, was vile;
And Man, yet untainted and happy, dwelt in bliss on the far Arctic isle.
Oh, great was the sin of my spirit,
And great is the reach of its doom;
Not the pity of Heaven can cheer it,
Nor can respite be found in the tomb:
Down the infinite aeons come beating the wings of unmerciful gloom.
Through the ghoul-guarded gateways of slumber,
Past the wan-mooned abysses of night,
I have lived o'er my lives without number,
I have sounded all things with my sight;
And I struggle and shriek ere the daybreak, being driven to madness with fright.