LOVECRAFT, H.P.


The Messenger

To Bertrand K. Hart, Esq.

The thing, he said, would come that night at three

From the old churchyard on the hill below;

But crouching by an oak fire’s wholesome glow,

I tried to tell myself it could not be.

Surely, I mused, it was a pleasantry

Devised by one who did not truly know

The Elder Sign, bequeathed from long ago,

That sets the fumbling forms of darkness free.

He had not meant it—no—but still I lit

Another lamp as starry Leo climbed

Out of the Seekonk, and a steeple chimed

Three—and the firelight faded, bit by bit.

Then at the door that cautious rattling came—

And the mad truth devoured me like a flame!


The Ancient Track

There was no hand to hold me back

That night I found the ancient track

Over the hill, and strained to see

The fields that teased my memory.

This tree, that wall—I knew them well,

And all the roofs and orchards fell

Familiarly upon my mind

As from a past not far behind.

I knew what shadows would be cast

When the late moon came up at last

From back of Zaman’s Hill, and how

The vale would shine three hours from now.

And when the path grew steep and high,

And seemed to end against the sky,

I had no fear of what might rest

Beyond that silhouetted crest.

Straight on I walked, while all the night

Grew pale with phosphorescent light,

And wall and farmhouse gable glowed

Unearthly by the climbing road.

There was the milestone that I knew—

“Two miles to Dunwich”—now the view

Of distant spire and roofs would dawn

With ten more upward paces gone. . . .

There was no hand to hold me back

That night I found the ancient track,

And reached the crest to see outspread

A valley of the lost and dead:

And over Zaman’s Hill the horn

Of a malignant moon was born,

To light the weeds and vines that grew

On ruined walls I never knew.

The fox-fire glowed in field and bog,

And unknown waters spewed a fog

Whose curling talons mocked the thought

That I had ever known this spot.

Too well I saw from the mad scene

That my loved past had never been—

Nor was I now upon the trail

Descending to that long-dead vale.

Around was fog—ahead, the spray

Of star-streams in the Milky Way. . . .

There was no hand to hold me back

That night I found the ancient track.


Astrophobos

In the midnight heavens burning

Thro’ ethereal deeps afar,

Once I watch’d with restless yearning

An alluring, aureate star;

Ev’ry eye aloft returning,

Gleaming nigh the Arctic car.

Mystic waves of beauty blended

With the gorgeous golden rays;

Phantasies of bliss descended

In a myrrh’d Elysian haze;

And in lyre-born chords extended

Harmonies of Lydian lays.

There (thought I) lies scenes of pleasure,

Where the free and blessed dwell,

And each moment bears a treasure

Freighted with a lotus-spell,

And there floats a liquid measure

From the lute of Israfel.

There (I told myself) were shining

Worlds of happiness unknown,

Peace and Innocence entwining

By the Crowned Virtue’s throne;

Men of light, their thoughts refining

Purer, fairer, than our own.

Thus I mus’d, when o’er the vision

Crept a red delirious change;

Hope dissolving to derision,

Beauty to distortion strange;

Hymnic chords in weird collision,

Spectral sights in endless range.

Crimson burn’d the star of sadness

As behind the beams I peer’d;

All was woe that seem’d but gladness

Ere my gaze with truth was sear’d;

Cacodaemons, mir’d with madness,

Thro’ the fever’d flick’ring leer’d.

Now I know the fiendish fable

That the golden glitter bore;

Now I shun the spangled sable

That I watch’d and lov’d before;

But the horror, set and stable,

Haunts my soul for evermore.


Nemesis

Thro’ the ghoul-guarded gateways of slumber,

Past the wan-moon’d abysses of night,

I have liv’d o’er my lives without number,

I have sounded all things with my sight;

And I struggle and shriek ere the daybreak, being driven to madness with fright.

I have whirl’d with the earth at the dawning,

When the sky was a vaporous flame;

I have seen the dark universe yawning,

Where the black planets roll without aim;

Where they roll in their horror unheeded, without knowledge or lustre or name.

I had drifted o’er seas without ending,

Under sinister grey-clouded skies

That the many-fork’d lightning is rending,

That resound with hysterical cries;

With the moans of invisible daemons that out of the green waters rise.

I have plung’d like a deer thro’ the arches

Of the hoary primordial grove,

Where the oaks feel the presence that marches

And stalks on where no spirit dares rove;

And I flee from a thing that surrounds me, and leers thro’ dead branches above.

I have stumbled by cave-ridden mountains

That rise barren and bleak from the plain,

I have drunk of the fog-foetid fountains

That ooze down to the marsh and the main;

And in hot cursed tarns I have seen things I care not to gaze on again.

I have scann’d the vast ivy-clad palace,

I have trod its untenanted hall,

Where the moon writhing up from the valleys

Shews the tapestried things on the wall;

Strange figures discordantly woven, which I cannot endure to recall.

I have peer’d from the casement in wonder

At the mouldering meadows around,

At the many-roof’d village laid under

The curse of a grave-girdled ground;

And from rows of white urn-carven marble I listen intently for sound.

I have haunted the tombs of the ages,

I have flown on the pinions of fear

Where the smoke-belching Erebus rages,

Where the jokulls loom snow-clad and drear:

And in realms where the sun of the desert consumes what it never can cheer.

I was old when the Pharaohs first mounted

The jewel-deck’d throne by the Nile;

I was old in those epochs uncounted

When I, and I only, was vile;

And Man, yet untainted and happy, dwelt in bliss on the far Arctic isle.

Oh, great was the sin of my spirit,

And great is the reach of its doom;

Not the pity of Heaven can cheer it,

Nor can respite be found in the tomb:

Down the infinite aeons come beating the wings of unmerciful gloom.

Thro’ the ghoul-guarded gateways of slumber,

Past the wan-moon’d abysses of night,

I have liv’d o’er my lives without number,

I have sounded all things with my sight;

And I struggle and shriek ere the daybreak, being driven to madness with fright.

FUNGI FROM YUGGOTH

I. The Book

The place was dark and dusty and half-lost

In tangles of old alleys near the quays,

Reeking of strange things brought in from the seas,

And with queer curls of fog that west winds tossed.

Small lozenge panes, obscured by smoke and frost,

Just shewed the books, in piles like twisted trees,

Rotting 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 through,

Trembling at curious words that seemed to keep

Some secret, monstrous if one only knew.

Then, looking for some seller old in craft,

I could find nothing but a voice that laughed.


IX - The Courtyard

It was the city I had known before;

The ancient, leprous town where mongrel throngs

Chant to strange gods, and beat unhallowed gongs

In crypts beneath foul alleys near the shore.

The rotting, fish-eyed houses leered at me

From where they leaned, drunk and half-animate,

As edging through the filth I passed the gate

To the black courtyard where the man would be.

The dark walls closed me in, and loud I cursed

That ever I had come to such a den,

When suddenly a score of windows burst

Into wild light, and swarmed with dancing men:

Mad, soundless revels of the dragging dead—

And not a corpse had either hands or head!


XVIII. The Gardens of Yin

Beyond that wall, whose ancient masonry

Reached almost to the sky in moss-thick towers,

There would be terraced gardens, rich with flowers,

And flutter of bird and butterfly and bee.

There would be walks, and bridges arching over

Warm lotos-pools reflecting temple eaves,

And cherry-trees with delicate boughs and leaves

Against a pink sky where the herons hover.

All would be there, for had not old dreams flung

Open the gate to that stone-lanterned maze

Where drowsy streams spin out their winding ways,

Trailed by green vines from bending branches hung?

I hurried—but when the wall rose, grim and great,

I found there was no longer any gate.


XX - Night-Gaunts

Out of what crypt they crawl, I cannot tell,

But every night I see the rubbery things,

Black, horned, and slender, with membranous wings,

They come in legions on the north wind’s swell

With obscene clutch that titillates and stings,

Snatching me off on monstrous voyagings

To grey worlds hidden deep in nightmare’s well.

Over the jagged peaks of Thok they sweep,

Heedless of all the cries I try to make,

And down the nether pits to that foul lake

Where the puffed shoggoths splash in doubtful sleep.

But ho! If only they would make some sound,

Or wear a face where faces should be found!

XXVI – The Familiars

John Whately lived about a mile from town,

Up where the hills began to huddle thick;

We never thought his wits were very quick,

Seeing the way he let his farm run down.

He used to waste his time on some queer books

He'd found around the attic of his place,

Till funny lines got creased into his face,

And folks all said they didn't like his looks.

When he began those night-howls we declared

He'd better be locked up away from harm,

So three men from the Aylesbury town farm

Went for him - but came back alone and scared.

They'd found him talking to two crouching things

That at their step flew off on great black wings.

XXX. Background

I never can be tied to raw, new things,

For I first saw the light in an old town,

Where from my window huddled roofs sloped down

To a quaint harbour rich with visionings.

Streets with carved doorways where the sunset beams

Flooded old fanlights and small window-panes,

And Georgian steeples topped with gilded vanes—

These were the sights that shaped my childhood dreams.

Such treasures, left from times of cautious leaven,

Cannot but loose the hold of flimsier wraiths

That flit with shifting ways and muddled faiths

Across the changeless walls of earth and heaven.

They cut the moment’s thongs and leave me free

To stand alone before eternity.


XXXII – Alienation

His solid flesh had never been away,

For each dawn found him in his usual place,

But every night his spirit loved to race

Through gulfs and worlds remote from common day.

He had seen Yaddith, yet retained his mind,

And come back safely from the Ghooric zone,

When one still night across curved space was thrown

That beckoning piping from the voids behind.

He waked that morning as an older man,

And nothing since has looked the same to him.

Objects around float nebulous and dim—

False, phantom trifles of some vaster plan.

His folk and friends are now an alien throng

To which he struggles vainly to belong.

XXXV - Evening Star

I saw it from that hidden, silent place

Where the old wood half shuts the meadow in.

It shone through all the sunset's glories - thin

At first, but with a slowly brightening face.

Night came, and that lone beacon, amber-hued,

Beat on my sight as never it did of old;

The evening star - but grown a thousandfold

More haunting in this hush and solitude.

It traced strange pictures on the quivering air -

Half-memories that had always filled my eyes -

Vast towers and gardens; curious seas and skies

Of some dim life - I never could tell where.

But I knew that through the cosmic dome

Those rays were calling from my far, lost home.