I do not know what windings in the waste
Of those strange sea-lanes
brought me home once more,
But on my porch I trembled,
white with haste
To get inside and bolt the heavy door.
I had the book
that told the hidden way
Across the void
and through the space-hung screens
That hold the undimensioned worlds at bay,
And keep lost aeons
to their own demesnes.
At last the key was mine
to those vague visions
Of sunset spires and twilight woods
that brood Dim in the gulfs
beyond this earth’s precisions,
Lurking as memories of infinitude.
The key was mine,
but as I sat there mumbling,
The attic window
shook
with a faint fumbling.
