All would be there, for had not old dreams flung

Open the gate to that stone-lanterned maze

Where drowsy streams spin out their winding ways,

Trailed by green vines from bending branches hung?

I hurried - but when the wall rose, grim and great,

I found there was no longer any gate.

XIX. The Bells

Year after year I heard that faint, far ringing

Of deep-toned bells on the black midnight wind;

Peals from no steeple I could ever find,

But strange, as if across some great void winging.

I searched my dreams and memories for a clue,

And thought of all the chimes my visions carried;

Of quiet Innsmouth, where the white gulls tarried

Around an ancient spire that once I knew.

Always perplexed I heard those far notes falling,

Till one March night the bleak rain splashing cold

Beckoned me back through gateways of recalling

To elder towers where the mad clappers tolled.

They tolled - but from the sunless tides that pour