In Averiogne the enchantress weaves
Weird spells that cast a changeling sun,
From the sepulchral regions dark,
To abide on ivy blackened towers
Whose fungi mottled castles have
Time’s phantoms for their seneschal.
There are the tyrannous monarchies
That walk with thunder-echoing shoon
In iron castles past the moon—
Close moated with eternities

Where the cathedral satyrs make,
From mouths of sullen sombre stone,
Unending silent moan
Wherein is writ the secret of our dole
Of mortal woes immortalized by thee
And wisdom, through time's olden perfidy
Draws back to life from some Lethean shoal.