H.P Lovecraft

D. Lewis reads Nemesis
H.P Lovecraft 1890 - 1937 Is best known as a writer of weird fiction.

As a child He was Reciting poetry, reading at age 3, and writing at age 6.

As a young boy he was lonely and suffered from frequent illnesses that kept him home.



Nemesis

Through the ghoul-guarded gateways of slumber,

Past the wan-mooned abysses of night,

I have lived 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 whirled 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-forked lightning is rending,

That resound with hysterical cries;

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


I have plunged like a deer through the arches

Of the hoary primoridal 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 through 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 scanned the vast ivy-clad palace,

I have trod its untenanted hall,

Where the moon rising up from the valleys

Shows the tapestried things on the wall;

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


I have peered from the casements in wonder

At the mouldering meadows around,

At the many-roofed 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-decked 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.


Through the ghoul-guarded gateways of slumber,

Past the wan-mooned abysses of night,

I have lived 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.





Yule Horror

There is snow on the ground,

And the valleys are cold,

And a midnight profound

Blackly squats o'er the wold;

But a light on the hilltops half-seen hints of feastings un-hallowed and old.


There is death in the clouds,

There is fear in the night,

For the dead in their shrouds

Hail the sin's turning flight.

And chant wild in the woods as they dance round a Yule- altar fungous and white.


To no gale of Earth's kind

Sways the forest of oak,

Where the sick boughs entwined

By mad mistletoes choke,

For these pow'rs are the pow'rs of the dark, from the graves of the lost Druid-folk.










The Wood

They cut it down, and where the pitch-black aisles

Of forest night had hid eternal things,

They scaled the sky with towers and marble piles

To make a city for their revellings.

White and amazing to the lands around

That wondrous wealth of domes and turrets rose;

Crystal and ivory, sublimely crowned

With pinnacles that bore un melting snows.

And through its halls the pipe and sistrum rang,

While wine and riot brought their scarlet stains;

Never a voice of elder marvels sang,

Nor any eye called up the hills and plains.

Thus down the years, till on one purple night

A drunken minstrel in his careless verse

Spoke the vile words that should not see the light,

And stirred the shadows of an ancient curse.

Forests may fall, but not the dusk they shield;

So on the spot where that proud city stood,

The shuddering dawn no single stone revealed,

But fled the blackness of a primal wood.