by H. P. Lovecraft
The way led down a dark, half-wooded heath
Where moss-gray boulders humped above the mold,
And curious drops, disquieting and cold,
Sprayed up from unseen streams in gulfs beneath.
There was no wind, or any trace of sound
In puzzling shrub, or alien-featured tree,
Nor any view before-till suddenly,
Straight in my path, I saw a monstrous mound.
Half to the sky those steep sides loomed upspread,
Rank-grassed, and cluttered by a crumbling flight
Of lava stairs that scaled the fear-topped height
In steps too vast for any human tread.
I shrieked-and knew what primal star and year
Had sucked me back from man’s dream-transient sphere!