Everlasting mysteries, carved in stone
Sweeter the thought of death to me
Than love's own sleep or any dream;
Than starlight on some ebon stream
Or moonlight on the marble sea.
Like black and mummia-laden wine
My soul foredrains oblivion:
The bitter splendors of the sun
Resolved in Lethe's anodyne.
Love and desire and dead delight
And dead despair are shades that pass
As in a necromancer's glass
To mingle with the shades of night.
They pass. . . . the secret peace I crave
Like a black shroud enwraps me round—
Lost, and voluptuously drowned
In the dark languor of the grave.
—"Mors", Clark Ashton Smith