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Fungi from Yuggoth

By H.P. Lovecraft


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 eons 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 show
Those dead eyes set in crystal gulfs below!