Robert W. Chambers

Strange is the night where black stars rise, And strange moons circle through the skies, But stranger still is Lost . ...Song of my soul, my voice is dead, Die thou, unsung, as tears unshed Shall dry and die in

Come and see my rose-coloured bath full of death!

The ambition of Caesar and of Napoleon pales before that which could not rest until it had seized the minds of men and controlled even their unborn thoughts.

To come is easy and takes hours; to go is different—and may take centuries.

I pray God will curse the writer, as the writer has cursed the world with its beautiful stupendous creation, terrible in its simplicity, irresistible in its truth—a world which now trembles before the King In Yellow.