Clark Ashton Smith

The harsh, brief sob of broken horns; the sound
Of hammers, on some clanging sepulcher;
Lutes in a thunder-storm; a dulcimer
By sudden drums and clamoring bugles drowned;
Crackle of pearls, and gritting rubies, ground
Beneath an iron heel; the heavy whirr
Of battle-wheels; a hungry leopard's purr;
And sigh of swords withdrawing from the wound:—

All, all are in they dreadful fugue, O life,
Thy dark, malign and monstrous music, spun
In hell from a delirious Satan's dream ! . . .
O! dissonance primordial and supreme—
The moan, the thunder, evermore at strife,
Beneath the unheeding silence of the sun !

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