Sometimes I stand upon the shores
where troubles vault their effluence pour
and troubled waters sigh and shrieck
of secrets that they dare not speak.
From nameless valleys far bellow,
and hills and plains no man may know,
the mystic swells and sullen surges
hint like accursed thaumaturges
a thousand horrors, big with awe,
that long-forgotten ages saw.
O salt, salt winds that bleakly sweep
across the barring heaving deep;
O wild wan waves, that call to mind
the chaos Earth hath left behind:
of you I ask one thing alone;
leave, leave your ancient lore unknown.