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I. The Book

The place was dark and dusty and half-lostIn tangles of old alleys near the quays,Reeking of strange things brought in from the seas,And with queer curls of fog that west winds tossed.Small lozenge panes, obscured by smoke and frost,Just shewed the books, in piles like twisted trees,Rotting from floor to roof – congeriesOf crumbling elder lore at little cost.I entered, charmed, and from a cobwebbed heapTook up the nearest tome and thumbed it through,Trembling at curious words that seemed to keepSome secret, monstrous if one only knew.Then, looking for some seller old in craft,I could find nothing but a voice that laughed.