REVENANTby Clark Ashton Smith

I am the specter who returnsUnto some desolate world in ruin borne afarOn the black flowing of Lethean skies:Ever I search, in cryptic galleries,The void sarcophagi, the broken urnsOf many a vanished avatar:Or haunt the gloom of grumbling pylons vastIn temples that enshrine the shadowy past.Viewless, impalpable and fleet,I roam stupendous avenues, and greetFamiliar sphinxes carved from everlasting stone,Or the fair, brittle gods of long ago,Decayed and fallen low.And there I mark the tall clepsammiaeThat time has overthrown,And empty clepsydrae,And dials drowned in umbrage never-lifting;And there, on rusty parapegms,I read the ephemeridesOf antique stars and elder planets driftingOblivionward in night.And there, with purples of the tomb bedight,And crowned with funeral gems,I hold awhile the throneWhereon mine immemorial selves have sate,Canopied by the triple-tinted gloryOf the three suns forever paled and flown.I am the specter who returnsAnd dwells content with his forlorn estateIn mansions lost and hoaryWhere no lamp burns;Who feasts within the sepulcher,And finds the ancient shadows lovelierThan gardens all emblazed with sevenfold noon,Or topaz-builded towersThat throng below some iris-pouring moon.Exiled and homeless in the younger stars,Henceforth I shall inhabit that grey climeWhose days belong to primal calendars;Nor would I come againBack to the garish terrene hours;For I am free of vaults unfathomableAnd treasures lost from time:With bat and vampire thereI flit through somber skies immeasurableOr fly adown the unending subterranes;Mummied and ceremented,I sit in councils of the kingly dead;And oftentimes for vestiture I wearThe granite of great idols looming darklyIn atlantean fanes;Or closely now and starklyI cling as clings the attenuating airAbout the ruins bare.

I am the specter who returns

Unto some desolate world in ruin borne afar

On the black flowing of Lethean skies:

Ever I search, in cryptic galleries,

The void sarcophagi, the broken urns

Of many a vanished avatar:

Or haunt the gloom of grumbling pylons vast

In temples that enshrine the shadowy past.

Viewless, impalpable and fleet,

I roam stupendous avenues, and greet

Familiar sphinxes carved from everlasting stone,

Or the fair, brittle gods of long ago,

Decayed and fallen low.

And there I mark the tall clepsammiae

That time has overthrown,

And empty clepsydrae,

And dials drowned in umbrage never-lifting;

And there, on rusty parapegms,

I read the ephemerides

Of antique stars and elder planets drifting

Oblivionward in night.

And there, with purples of the tomb bedight,

And crowned with funeral gems,

I hold awhile the throne

Whereon mine immemorial selves have sate,

Canopied by the triple-tinted glory

Of the three suns forever paled and flown.

I am the specter who returnsAnd dwells content with his forlorn estateIn mansions lost and hoaryWhere no lamp burns;Who feasts within the sepulcher,And finds the ancient shadows lovelierThan gardens all emblazed with sevenfold noon,Or topaz-builded towersThat throng below some iris-pouring moon.Exiled and homeless in the younger stars,Henceforth I shall inhabit that grey climeWhose days belong to primal calendars;Nor would I come againBack to the garish terrene hours;For I am free of vaults unfathomableAnd treasures lost from time:With bat and vampire thereI flit through somber skies immeasurableOr fly adown the unending subterranes;Mummied and ceremented,I sit in councils of the kingly dead;And oftentimes for vestiture I wearThe granite of great idols looming darklyIn atlantean fanes;Or closely now and starklyI cling as clings the attenuating airAbout the ruins bare.

I am the specter who returns

And dwells content with his forlorn estate

In mansions lost and hoary

Where no lamp burns;

Who feasts within the sepulcher,

And finds the ancient shadows lovelier

Than gardens all emblazed with sevenfold noon,

Or topaz-builded towers

That throng below some iris-pouring moon.

Exiled and homeless in the younger stars,

Henceforth I shall inhabit that grey clime

Whose days belong to primal calendars;

Nor would I come again

Back to the garish terrene hours;

For I am free of vaults unfathomable

And treasures lost from time:

With bat and vampire there

I flit through somber skies immeasurable

Or fly adown the unending subterranes;

Mummied and ceremented,

I sit in councils of the kingly dead;

And oftentimes for vestiture I wear

The granite of great idols looming darkly

In atlantean fanes;

Or closely now and starkly

I cling as clings the attenuating air

About the ruins bare.

Back to Index Next