Then in the dimmest waning galaxies, 

Outside of space-time's furthest, blackest marge,

Your birth was a novaed sun, writ large,

To burn away all petty hopes, and freeze

With terror unborn Man upon this land.

And when you came did not the awful scent

Of death rise up from that great continent,

All now a riven world, Gondwannaland?

Now is there strength or a more bitter gall

Than knowledge of your realm in moiling dream,

Enthroned athwart the universe supreme,

You, the unseen flint-hearted seneschal?

While through the eons, like some mantic lynx,

Grown glutted with the gore of Wizards slain,

Your potent evil now to wax, to wane,

But always with the mercy of the Sphinx!

When with the blood of innocence, the names

Of gods are writ upon the darkling scroll,

None will stand beyond your night-black toll

Of screaming terror in the yellow flames.

I, your unwilling servant, mull the wine;

With feeble hands I bear the pewter cup

To pale and trembling lips I drink it up

And pray that death may be my anodyne!