H. P. Lovecraft: The Complete Fiction E-Book

H. P. Lovecraft

• Herausgeber: WSBLD
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 97

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2017

Beschreibung

Here is the complete collection of fiction by H. P. Lovecraft. The Stories included are: The Nameless City The Festival The Colour Out of Space The Call of Cthulhu The Dunwich Horror The Whisperer in Darkness The Dreams in the Witch House The Haunter of the Dark The Shadow Over Innsmouth Discarded Draft of "The Shadow Over Innsmouth" The Shadow Out of Time At the Mountains of Madness The Case of Charles Dexter Ward Azathoth Beyond the Wall of Sleep Celephaïs Cool Air Dagon Ex Oblivione Facts Concerning the Late Arthur Jermyn and His Family From Beyond He Herbert West-Reanimator Hypnos In the Vault Memory Nyarlathotep Pickman's Model The Book The Cats of Ulthar The Descendant The Doom That Came to Sarnath The Dream-Quest of Unknown Kadath The Evil Clergyman The Horror at Red Hook The Hound The Lurking Fear The Moon-Bog The Music of Erich Zann The Other Gods The Outsider The Picture in the House The Quest of Iranon The Rats in the Walls The Shunned House The Silver Key The Statement of Randolph Carter The Strange High House in the Mist The Street The Temple The Terrible Old Man The Thing on the Doorstep The Tomb The Transition of Juan Romero The Tree The Unnamable The White Ship What the Moon Brings Polaris The Very Old Folk Ibid Old Bugs Sweet Ermengarde, or, The Heart of a Country Girl A Reminiscence of Dr. Samuel Johnson The History of the Necronomicon

Leseprobe

The Complete Poetry of H. P. Lovecraft

b.1890 — d.1937

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Contents

Part I. - Juvenilia (1887-1905)

Poemata Minora, Volume II

Part II. - Fantasy and Horror

Nemesis

Astrophobos

The Poe-et’s Nightmare

Despair

Revelation

The House

The City

To Edward John Moreton Drax Plunkett, Eighteenth Baron Dunsany

The Nightmare Lake

On Reading Lord Dunsany’s Book of Wonder

The Cats

Festival

Hallowe’en in a Suburb aka “In a Suburb”

The Wood

The Outpost

The Ancient Track

The Messenger

Nathicana

Fungi from Yuggoth

In a Sequester’d Providence Churchyard Where Once Poe Walk’d

To Clark Ashton Smith, Esq., upon His Phantastick Tales, Verses, Pictures, and Sculptures

Part III. - Occasional Verse

On Receiving a Picture of Swans

Fact and Fancy

Laeta; a Lament

Part IV. - Satire

Unda; or, The Bride of the Sea

Pacifist War Song—1917

Waste Paper

Dead Passion’s Flame

Arcadia

Life’s Mystery

Part V. - Seasonal and Topographical

A Garden

Sunset

Providence

Christmas

Christmas Greetings

Part VI. - Politics and Society

An American to Mother England

Lines on Gen. Robert Edward Lee

The Rose of England

The Peace Advocate

Ode for July Fourth, 1917

The Conscript

Part I. Juvenilia (1887-1905)

Poemata Minora, Volume II

* * * * *

Written: 1902

First Published in:

“Ode to Selene or Diana” (as “To Selene”)

The Tryout

, Vol. 5, No. 4 (April 1919), Page 18

“To the Old Pagan Religion” (as “The Last Pagan Speaks”)

The Tryout

, Vol. 5, No. 4 (April 1919), Page 17

“On the Ruin of Rome” A Winter Wish. Chapel Hill, NC: Whispers Press, 1977, Page 150

“To Pan” (as “Pan”)

The Tryout

, Vol. 5, No. 4 (April 1919), Page 16

“On the Vanity of Human Ambition” A Winter Wish. Chapel Hill, NC: Whispers Press, 1977, Page 143

Ode to Selene or Diana

Immortal Moon, in maiden splendour shine.

Dispense thy beams, divine Latona’s child.

Thy silver rays all grosser things define,

And hide harsh truth in sweet illusion mild.

In thy soft light, the city of unrest

That stands so squalid in thy brother’s glare

Throws off its habit, and in silence blest

Becomes a vision, sparkling bright and fair.

The modern world, with all it’s care & pain,

The smoky streets, the hideous clanging mills,

Face ’neath thy beams, Selene, and again

We dream like shepherds on Chaldæa’s hills.

Take heed, Diana, of my humble plea.

Convey me where my happiness may last.

Draw me against the tide of time’s rough sea

And let my sprirt rest amid the past.

To the Old Pagan Religion

Olympian gods! How can I let ye go

And pin my faith to this new Christian creed?

Can I resign the deities I know

For him who on a cross for man did bleed?

How in my weakness can my hopes depend

On one lone God, though mighty be his pow’r?

Why can Jove’s host no more assistance lend,

To soothe my pain, and cheer my troubled hour?

Are there no Dryads on these wooded mounts

O’er which I oft in desolation roam?

Are there no Naiads in these crystal founts?

Nor Nereids upon the Ocean foam?

Fast spreads the new; the older faith declines.

The name of Christ resounds upon the air.

But my wrack’d soul in solitude repines

And gives the Gods their last-receivèd pray’r.

On the Ruin of Rome

Low dost thou lie, O Rome, neath the foot of the Teuton

Slaves are thy men, and bent to the will of thy conqueror:

Wither hath gone, great city, the race that gave law to all nations,

Subdu’d the east and the west, and made them bow down to thy consuls.

Knew not defeat, but gave it to all who attack’d thee?

Dead! and replac’d by these wretches who cower in confusion

Dead! They who gave us this empire to guard and to live in

Rome, thou didst fall from thy pow’r with the proud race that made thee,

And we, base Italians, enjoy’d what we could not have builded.

To Pan

Seated in a woodland glen

By a shallow reedy stream

Once I fell a-musing, when

I was lull’d into a dream.

From the brook a shape arose

Half a man and half a goat.

Hoofs it had instead of toes

And a beard adorn’d its throat

On a set of rustic reeds

Sweetly play’d this hybrid man

Naught car’d I for earthly needs,

For I knew that this was Pan

Nymphs & Satyrs gather’d ’round

To enjoy the lively sound.

All to soon I woke in pain

And return’d to haunts of men.

But in rural vales I’d fain

Live and hear Pan’s pipes again.

On the Vanity of Human Ambition

Apollo, chasing Daphne, gain’d his prize

But lo! she turn’d to wood before his eyes.

More modern swains at golden prizes aim,

And ever strive some worldly thing to claim.

Yet ’tis the same as in Apollo’s case,

For, once attain’d, the purest gold seems base.

All that men seek ’s unworthy of the quest,

Yet seek they will, and never pause for rest.

True bliss, methinks, a man can only find

In virtuous life, & cultivated mind.

Part II. Fantasy and Horror

Nemesis

* * * * *

Written: 1st November 1917

First Published in The Vagrant, No. 7 (June 1918), Pages 41-43

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 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 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.

Astrophobos

* * * * *

Written: 25th November 1917

First Published in The United Amateur, Vol. 17, No. 3 (January 1918), Page 38

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

The Poe-et’s Nightmare

* * * * *

Written: 1916

First Published in The Vagrant, No. 8 (July 1918), Pages 13-23

A Fable

Luxus tumultus semper causa est.

Lucullus Languish, student of the skies,

And connoisseur of rarebits and mince pies,

A bard by choice, a grocer’s clerk by trade,

(Grown pessimist thro’ honours long delay’d),

A secret yearning bore, that he might shine

In breathing numbers, and in song divine.

Each day his fountain pen was wont to drop

An ode or dirge or two about the shop,

Yet naught could strike the chord within his heart

That throbb’d for poesy, and cry’d for art.

Each eve he sought his bashful Muse to wake

With overdoses of ice-cream and cake;

But thou’ th’ ambitious youth a dreamer grew,

Th’ Aonian Nymph declin’d to come to view.

Sometimes at dusk he scour’d the heav’ns afar,

Searching for raptures in the evening star;

One night he strove to catch a tale untold

In crystal deeps—but only caught a cold.

So pin’d Lucullus with his lofty woe,

Till one drear day he bought a set of Poe:

Charm’d with the cheerful horrors there display’d,

He vow’d with gloom to woo the Heav’nly Maid.

Of Auber’s tarn and Yaanek’s slope he dreams,

And weaves an hundred Ravens in his schemes.

Not far from our young hero’s peaceful home

Lies the fair grove wherein he loves to roam.

Tho’ but a stunted copse in vacant lot,

He dubs it Tempe, and adores the spot;

When shallow puddles dot the wooded plain,

And brim o’er muddy banks with muddy rain,

He calls them limpid lakes or poison pools

(Depending on which bard his fancy rules).

’Tis here he comes with Heliconian fire

On Sundays when he smites the Attic lyre;

And here one afternoon he brought his gloom,

Resolv’d to chant a poet’s lay of doom.

Roget’s Thesaurus, and a book of rhymes,

Provide the rungs whereon his spirit climbs:

With this grave retinue he trod the grove

And pray’d the Fauns he might a Poe-et prove.