Lovecraft, H. P.: To Klarkash-Ton, Lord of Averoigne

A time-black tower against dim banks of cloud;

Around its base the pathless pressing wood.

Shadow and silence, moss and mould, pressing wood

Grey, age fell'd slabs that once as cromlechs stood,

No fall of foot, no song of bird awakes

The lethal aisles of sempiternal night

Tho' oft with stir of wings the dense air shakes

As in the towre there glows a pallid light.

For here, apart, dwells one whose hands have wrought

Strange eidola that chill the world with fear;

Whose graven runes in tones of dread have taught

What things beyond the star-gulfs lurk and leer.

Dark Lord of Averiogne – whose windows stare

On pits of dream no other gaze could bear!