http://librarian.i2p/get/12943637495430575118/1092535537830771621
They say (though none has been there) that it comes Out of a pharos in a tower of stone, Where the last Elder One lives on alone, Talking to Chaos with the beat of drums. The Thing, they whisper, wears a silken mask Of yellow, whose queer folds appear to hide A face not of this earth, though none dares ask Just what those features are, which bulge inside.