The place was dark and dusty and half-loft
In tangles of old alleys near the quays,
Reeking of strange things brought in from the seas,
And whith queer curls of fog that west winds tossed
Small lozengue panes, obscured by smoke and frost,
Just showed the books, in piles like twisted trees,
Rooting from floor to roof - congeries
Of crumbling elder lore at little cost.
I entered, charmed, and from a cobwebbed heap
Took up the nearest tome and thumbed it trough,
Some secret, monstrous if one only knew.
Then, looking for some seller old in craft,
I could find nothing but a voice that laughed.
Fungi from Yuggoth.
H. P. Lovecraft