THE POETRY of H. P. Lovecraft E-Book

H. P. Lovecraft

• Herausgeber: e-artnow
• Kategorie: Sachliteratur, Reportagen, Biografien
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 104

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2016

Beschreibung

This carefully crafted ebook: "THE POETRY of H. P. Lovecraft" is formatted for your eReader with a functional and detailed table of contents. Howard Phillips Lovecraft (1890-1937) was an American author who achieved posthumous fame through his influential works of horror fiction. He is now regarded as one of the most significant 20th-century authors in his genre. Table of Contents: Life's Mystery Nathicana Christmas Greetings Poemata Minora On Receiving a Picture of Swans Unda; or, The Bride of the Sea An American to Mother England Lines on Gen. Robert Edward Lee The Rose of England The Poe-et's Nightmare Fact and Fancy Pacifist War Song - 1917 A Garden The Peace Advocate Ode for July Fourth, 1917 Nemesis Astrophobos Sunset Laeta; a Lament Psychopompos: A Tale in Rhyme The Conscript 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 Christmas Sir Thomas Tryout Waste Paper Providence The Cats Festival Hallowe'en in a Suburb The Wood The Outpost The Ancient Track The Messenger Fungi from Yuggoth Little Sam Perkins Dead Passion's Flame Arcadia In a Sequester'd Providence Churchyard Where Once Poe Walk'd To Clark Ashton Smith, Esq., upon His Phantastick Tales, Verses, Pictures, and Sculptures

Leseprobe

H. P. Lovecraft

THE POETRY of H. P. Lovecraft

Fungi from Yuggoth, Nathicana, Dead Passion’s Flame, Life’s Mistery, The Rose of England, The Conscript, Providence, Nemesis, A Garden, The Peace Advocate, Despair, The Ancient Track, Festival…

e-artnow, 2016 Contact: [email protected]

ISBN 978-80-268-5314-5

Table of Contents

Life’s Mystery

Nathicana

Christmas Greetings

Poemata Minora, Volume II

On Receiving a Picture of Swans

Unda; or, The Bride of the Sea

An American to Mother England

Lines on Gen. Robert Edward Lee

The Rose of England

The Poe-et’s Nightmare

Fact and Fancy

Pacifist War Song - 1917

A Garden

The Peace Advocate

Ode for July Fourth, 1917

Nemesis

Astrophobos

Sunset

Laeta; a Lament

Psychopompos: A Tale in Rhyme

The Conscript

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

Christmas

Sir Thomas Tryout

Waste Paper

Providence

The Cats

Festival

Hallowe’en in a Suburb

The Wood

The Outpost

The Ancient Track

The Messenger

Fungi from Yuggoth

Little Sam Perkins

Dead Passion’s Flame

Arcadia

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

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

Life’s Mystery

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Life! Ah, Life! What may this fluorescent pageant mean? Who can the evanescent object glean? He that is dead is the key of Life— Gone is the symbol, deep is the grave! Man is a breath, and Life is the fire; Birth is death, and silence the choir. Wrest from the aeons the heart of gold!

Nathicana

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It was in the pale garden of Zaïs; The mist-shrouded gardens of Zaïs, Where blossoms the white nephalotë, The redolent herald of midnight. There slumber the still lakes of crystal, And streamlets that flow without murm’ring; Smooth streamlets from caverns of Kathos Where brood the calm spirits of twilight. And over the lakes and the streamlets Are bridges of pure alabaster, White bridges all cunningly carven With figures of fairies and daemons. Here glimmer strange suns and strange planets, And strange is the crescent Banapis That sets ’yond the ivy-grown ramparts Where thickens the dust of the evening. Here fall the white vapours of Yabon; And here in the swirl of vapours I saw the divine Nathicana; The garlanded, white Nathicana; The slender, black-hair’d Nathicana; The sloe-ey’d, red-lipp’d Nathicana; The silver-voic’d, sweet Nathicana; The pale-rob’d, belov’d Nathicana. And ever was she my belovèd, From ages when Time was unfashion’d; From days when the stars were not fashion’d Nor any thing fashion’d but Yabon. And here dwelt we ever and ever, The innocent children of Zaïs, At peace in the paths and the arbours, White-crown’d with the blest nephalotë. How oft would we float in the twilight O’er flow’r-cover’d pastures and hillsides All white with the lowly astalthon; The lowly yet lovely astalthon, And dream in a world made of dreaming The dreams that are fairer than Aidenn; Bright dreams that are truer than reason! So dream’d and so lov’d we thro’ ages, Till came the curs’d season of Dzannin; The daemon-damn’d season of Dzannin; When red shone the suns and the planets, And red gleamed the crescent Banapis, And red fell the vapours of Yabon. Then redden’d the blossoms and streamlets And lakes that lay under the bridges, And even the calm alabaster Glow’d pink with uncanny reflections Till all the carv’d fairies and daemons Leer’d redly from the backgrounds of shadow. Now redden’d my vision, and madly I strove to peer thro’ the dense curtain And glimpse the divine Nathicana; The pure, ever-pale Nathicana; The lov’d, the unchang’d Nathicana. But vortex on vortex of madness Beclouded my labouring vision; My damnable, reddening vision That built a new world for my seeing; A new world of redness and darkness, A horrible coma call’d living. So now in this coma call’d living I view the bright phantons of beauty; The false, hollow phantoms of beauty That cloak all the evils of Dzannin. I view them with infinite longing, So like do they seem to my lov’d one; So shapely and fair like my lov’d one; Yet foul from their eyes shines their evil; Their cruel and pitiless evil, More evil than Thaphron and Latgoz, Twice ill for its gorgeous concealment. And only in slumbers of midnight Appears the lost maid Nathicana, The pallid, the pure Nathicana, Who fades at the glance of the dreamer. Again and again do I seek her; I woo with deep draughts of Plathotis, Deep draughts brew’d in wine of Astarte And strengthen’d with tears of long weeping. I yearn for the gardens of Zaïs; The lovely lost garden of Zaïs Where blossoms the white nephalotë, The redolent herald of midnight. The last potent draught I am brewing; A draught that the daemons delight in;

Christmas Greetings

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To Eugene B. Kuntz et al

To Laurie A. Sawyer

To Sonia H. Greene

To Rheinhart Kleiner

To Felis (Frank Belknap Long’s Cat)

To Annie E. P. Gamwell

To Felis (Frank Belknap Long’s Cat)

To Eugene B. Kuntz et al

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May good St. Nick, like as a bird of night, Bring thee rich blessings in his annual flight; Long by thy chimney rest his pond’rous pack,

To Laurie A. Sawyer

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As Christmas snows (as yet a poet’s trope) Call back one’s bygone days of youth and hope, Four metrick lines I send—they’re quite enough— Tho’ once I fancy’d I could write the stuff!

To Sonia H. Greene

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Once more the ancient feast returns, And the bright hearth domestic burns With Yuletide’s added blaze; So, too, may all your joys increase Midst floods of mem’ry, love, and peace,

To Rheinhart Kleiner

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St. John, whose art sublimely shines In liquid odes and melting lines, Let Theobald his regard express In verse of lesser loveliness. As now in regal state appear The festive hours of Yuletide cheer,

To Felis

(Frank Belknap Long’s Cat)

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Little Tiger, burning bright With a subtle Blakeish light, Tell what visions have their home In those eyes of flame and chrome! Children vex thee—thoughtless, gay— Holding when thou wouldst away:

To Annie E. P. Gamwell

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As when a pigeon, loos’d in realms remote, Takes instant wing, and seeks his native cote, So speed my blessings from a barb’rous clime

To Felis

(Frank Belknap Long’s Cat)

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Haughty Sphinx, whose amber eyes Hold the secrets of the skies, As thou ripplest in thy grace, Round the chairs and chimney-place, Scorn on thy patrician face: Hiss not harsh, nor use thy claws On the hand that gives applause—

Poemata Minora, Volume II

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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,

On Receiving a Picture of Swans

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With pensive grace the melancholy Swan Mourns o’er the tomb of luckless Phaëton; On grassy banks the weeping poplars wave, And guard with tender care the wat’ry grave. Would that I might, should I too proudly claim An Heav’nly parent, or a Godlike fame, When flown too high, and dash’d to depths below, Receive such tribute as a Cygnus’ woe! The faithful bird, that dumbly floats along,

Unda; or, The Bride of the Sea

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“Ego, canus, lunam cano.”

—Maevius Bavianus.

Black loom the crags of the uplands behind me; Dark are the sands of the far-stretching shore. Dim are the pathways and rocks that remind me Sadly of years in the lost nevermore. Soft laps the ocean on wave-polish’d boulder; Sweet is the sound and familiar to me. Here, with her head gently bent to my shoulder, Walk’d I with Unda, the Bride of the Sea. Bright was the morn of my youth when I met her, Sweet as the breeze that blew in o’er the brine. Swift was I captur’d in Love’s strongest fetter, Glad to be hers, and she glad to be mine. Never a question ask’d I where she wander’d, Never a question ask’d she of my birth: Happy as children, we thought not nor ponder’d,