It was in the pale garden of Zais;
The mist-shrouded gardens of Zais,
Where blossoms the white nephalot,
the redolent herald of midnight.
There slumber the still lakes of crystal,
and streamlets that flow without murm'ring,
smooth streamlets from caverns of Kathos
Where broodth the calm spirits of twilight.
And over the lakes and the streamlets
are bridges of pure alabaster,
white bridges all cunningly carven
with figures of faeries and demons.
Here glimmer strange suns and strange planets,
and strange is the crescent Banapis
That sets 'yond the ivy-grown ramparts
where thickens the dusk of the evening.
Here fall the white vapors of Yabon;
the thought-blotting vapors of Yabon;
And here in the swirl of the vapors
I saw the divine Nathicana;
The garlanded, white nathicana;
the slender, black-hair'd nathicana;
the sloe-eyed, red-lipped nathicana;
the silver-voiced, sweet nathicana;
The pale-robed, belov'd nathicana.
And ever was she my beloved,
from ages when time was unfashioned;
from days when the stars were not fashioned
nor anything fashioned but Yabon.
And here dwelt we ever and ever,
the innocent children of Zais,
at peace in the paths and the arbors,
white-crowned with the blest nephalote.
how oft would we float in the twilight
o'er flow'r-cover'd pastures and hillsides
all white with the lowly astalthon;
the lowly yet lovely astalthon,
and dream in a world made of dreaming
the dreams that are fairer than Aidenn;
bright dreams that are truer than reason!
So dreamed and so loved we through a ages,
till came the cursed seaon of Dzannin;
the daemon-Damn'd season of Dzannin;
when red shone the suns and the planets
and red gleamed the crescent Banapis,
and red fell the vapours of Yabon.
Then redden'd the blossoms and streamlets
and lakes that lay under the bridges,
and even the calm alabaster
glowed pink with uncanny reflections
till all the carv'd fairies and daemons
leer'd redly from backgrounds of shadow.
Now redden'd my vision, and madly
I strove to peer through the dense curtain
and glimpse the divine Nathicana;
the pure, ever-pale nathicana;
the lov'd, the unchang'd nathicana.
But vortex on Vortex of madness
beclouded my labouring vision;
my damnable, reddening vision
that built a new world for my seeing;
a new world of redness and darkness,
a horrible coma called living.
So now in this coma call'd living
I view the bright phantoms of beauty;
The false, hollow phantoms of beauty
that cloak all the evils of Dzannin.
I view them with infinite longing,
so like to they seem to my lov'd one;
yet foul from their eyes shines their evil;
their cruel and pitiless evil,
more evil than Thaphron or Latgoz,
twice ill for its gorgeous concealment.
And only in slumbers of midnight
appears the lost maid nathicana,
the pallid, the pure nathicana
who fades at the glance of the dreamer.
Again and again do I seek her;
I woo with deep draughts of Plathotis,
deep draughts brew'd in wine of astarte
and strengthen'd with tears of long weeping.
I yearn for the gardens of Zais;
the lovely, lost gardens of Zais
where blossoms the white nephalot,
the redolent herald of midnight.
The last potent draught I am brewing;
a draught that the daemons delight in;
a draught that will banish the redness;
the horrible coma call'd living.
soon, soon, if I fail not in brewing,
the redness and madness will vanish,
and deep in the worm-peopl'd darkness
will rot the base chains that have bound me.
Once more shall the gardens of Zais
dawn white on my long-tortur'd vision,
and there midst the vapours of Yabon
will stand the divine Nathicana;
the deathless, restor'd Nathicana
whose like is not met with in living
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It was in the pale kitchen of Zais;
The flour-covered kitchens of Zais,
Where rises the white loaf of bread-dough,
The redolent herald of sandwich.
There slumber the still slabs of lunchmeat,
and jellies that flow without murm'ring,
smooth jellies from caverns of Kathos
where brew the calm spirits of twilight.
and over the jams and the jellies
are poundcakes with real, pure cane sugar,
white poundcakes all cunningly frosted
with figures of berries and lemons.
Here glimmer strange spoons and utensils,
and strange is the crescent Banana
that floats 'yond the parsley-grown ramparts
where thickens the jell-o this evening.
Here falls the white sugar of Yabon;
the confectioner's sugar of Yabon;
and here in the swirl of the sugar
I saw the divine bar of chocolate;
the paper-wrapped, brown bar of chocolate;
the slender, deep-hued bar of chocolate;
the smooth-tasting, pure bar of chocolate;
the melt-in-your-mouth bar of chocolate;
the creamy, belov'd bar of chocolate.
And ever was she my beloved,
from ages when food was unfashioned;
from days when the lunch was not fashioned
nor anything fashioned but yabon.
And here ate we ever and ever,
the innocent feasters of Zais,
at peace in the stoves and the ovens,
white-crowned with the blest slice of bread.
how oft would we eat in the twilight
oe'r flour-covered counters and tables
all red with the lowly paprika;
the lowly yet spicy paprika,
and eat in a world made of eating
the eats that are better than Aidenn's;
great eats that taste better than raisins!
so slept and so ate we through ages,
till came the cursed season of Diet;
the daemon-Damned season of Diet;
when thin shone the spoons and utensils
and thin grew the crescent Banana,
and thin fell the sugars of Yabon.
Then dried up the jams and the jellies
and gone were the plentiful poundcakes
and even the real, pure cane sugar
was swiftly and surely depleted
Till all the carv'd berries and lemons
scowled thinly with stomachs of shadow.
Now redden'd my vision, and madly
I strove to reach through the thin curtain
and grab the divine bar of chocolate;
the pure, ever-sweet bar of chocolate;
the lov'd, the unchang'd bar of chocolate.
but Vortex on vortex of nausea
beclouded my labouring vision;
my damnable, reddening vision
that built a new world for my eating;
a new world of thinness and blandness,
a horrible coma called fitness.
so now in this coma call'd fitness
I view the bright phantoms of cal'ries;
the false, hollow phantoms of cal'ries
that cloak all the evils of Diets.
I view them with infinite longing,
so like do they seem to my lov'd one;
yet foul from their pan shines their tofu;
their cruel and pitiless tofu,
more evil than bread-mold or yogurt,
twice ill for its gorgeous concealment.
and only in slumbers of dinner
appears the lost sweet bar of chocolate,
the light brown, the pure bar of chocolate
who fades at the taste of the dreamer.
Again and again do i seek her;
I woo with deep draughts of flat soda,
deep draughts brew'd in cod liver oil
and strengthen'd with tears of long hunger.
I yearn for the kitchens of Zais;
the lovely, lost kitchens of Zais
where rises the white loaf of bread,
the redolent herald of sandwich.
the last potent draught I am brewing;
A draught that the daemons delight in;
a draught that will banish the diet;
the horrible coma call'd fitness.
Soon, soon, if I fail not in brewing,
the thinness and madness will vanish,
and deep in the worm-peopl'd darkness
will rot the base plates that surround me.
Once more shall the kitchens of Zais
Dawn white on my long-tortur'd stomach,
and there midst the sugars of Yabon
will stand the divine bar of chocolate;
the deathless, restor'd bar of chocolate
whose like is not met with on diet
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