Howard Lovecraft

The Complete Poetry of H. P. Lovecraft

Like Poe, Lovecraft began writing significantly more poetry than fiction, and at one point considered himself primarily a poet. This is his (more of less) complete public domain poetry.
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    Jagoda Adamarczukhar delt en vurderingfor 6 år siden

    Lovecraft is a master of his genre !


    ninuca beyhar citeretsidste år
    That Nameless One to whom a thousand smokes
    Rose, aeons gone, from unclean towers up-piled.
    I saw the body spread on that dank stone,
    And knew those things which feasted were not men;
    I knew this strange, grey world was not my own,
    But Yuggoth, past the starry voids—and then
    The body shrieked at me with a dead cry,
    And all too late I knew that it was I!
    Дарья Хохловаhar citeretfor 2 år siden
    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.
    Rose.Nymphethar citeretfor 3 år siden
    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.
    II. Pursuit
    I held the book beneath my coat, at pains
    To hide the thing from sight in such a place;
    Hurrying through the ancient harbor lanes
    With often-turning head and nervous pace.
    Dull, furtive windows in old tottering brick
    Peered at me oddly as I hastened by,
    And thinking what they sheltered, I grew sick
    For a redeeming glimpse of clean blue sky.
    No one had seen me take the thing—but still
    A blank laugh echoed in my whirling head,
    And I could guess what nighted worlds of ill
    Lurked in that volume I had coveted.
    The way grew strange—the walls alike and madding—
    And far behind me, unseen

På boghylderne

    Akash Mukherjee
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    Summer 2019
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    Tia Marsh
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