My dreams were nests or horror, whimsey-wrought with orts and shreds from old abysses brought where eyries built by condor-winged awe enskied on somber pinnacles of thought Fantastical, I saw the visions shift like bubbles that a titan's breath might lift Drowning in seas more deep than his despair iron-colored, soon to shatter or to drift. Or like illuminated crystals fallen from hands of gods, that cloud interiorly with lands of wider spheres exalted past the sun or burst while thought in idle question stands Said the dreamer Conscious of gulfs in which I dared not gaze I passed on faltering and imperilled ways through lands where hoary mountains danced and roared to baleful pygmeis piping hellish lays the flames that wait against the end of things where light and limit to my wanderings through deserts bleaching like the bones of death aback I fled, and faltered on spent wings In night cimmerian, thronged with sorceries where lightnings flamed on empty sands and seas or feared the leopard0crough of pallid shapes in saracenic arches of black trees. Then in the dream I dreamt that time was done light still endured, whose touch I might not shun though at my back I heard the lips of night puff out the flaring flambeau of the sun Said the dreamer I leaned from some black precipice, to see the pits beneath, one came, not far from me to hurled therein the sockets of the stars and shells of worlds that rattled emptily.