Sad, old poem by a delightfully strange man...
The Garden
by Howard Phillips Lovecraft
There's an ancient, ancient garden that I see sometimes in dreams,
Where the very Maytime sunlight plays and glows with spectral gleams;
Where the gaudy-tinted blossoms seem to wither into grey,
And the crumbling walls and pillars waken thoughts of yesterday.
There are vines in nooks and crannies, and there's moss about the pool,
And the tangled weedy thicket chokes the arbour dark and cool:
In the silent sunken pathways springs a herbage sparse and spare,
Where the musty scent of dead things dulls the fragrance of the air.
There is not a living creature in the lonely space around,
And the hedge~encompass'd quiet never echoes to a sound.
As I walk, and wait, and listen, I will often seek to find
When it was I knew that garden in an age long left behind;
I will oft conjure a vision of a day that is no more,
As I gaze upon the grey, grey scenes I feel I knew before.
Then a sadness settles o'er me, and a tremor seems to start -
For I know the flow'rs are shrivell'd hopes - the garden is my heart.
I have always been fascinated by H.P. Lovecraft. Although his use of language is sometimes unreasonably cluttered, and his characters (and especially the way that they speak to one another) not quite beleivable, I have still greatly enjoyed many of his stories. Some of the imagery he employs borders on the indescribable, rich and luxuriant in it's mind bending horrors, and he certainly invented a whole mythos that has stood the test of time.
Many of his works are now in the public domain. You can go here to read some of them, if you are interested.
by Howard Phillips Lovecraft
There's an ancient, ancient garden that I see sometimes in dreams,
Where the very Maytime sunlight plays and glows with spectral gleams;
Where the gaudy-tinted blossoms seem to wither into grey,
And the crumbling walls and pillars waken thoughts of yesterday.
There are vines in nooks and crannies, and there's moss about the pool,
And the tangled weedy thicket chokes the arbour dark and cool:
In the silent sunken pathways springs a herbage sparse and spare,
Where the musty scent of dead things dulls the fragrance of the air.
There is not a living creature in the lonely space around,
And the hedge~encompass'd quiet never echoes to a sound.
As I walk, and wait, and listen, I will often seek to find
When it was I knew that garden in an age long left behind;
I will oft conjure a vision of a day that is no more,
As I gaze upon the grey, grey scenes I feel I knew before.
Then a sadness settles o'er me, and a tremor seems to start -
For I know the flow'rs are shrivell'd hopes - the garden is my heart.
I have always been fascinated by H.P. Lovecraft. Although his use of language is sometimes unreasonably cluttered, and his characters (and especially the way that they speak to one another) not quite beleivable, I have still greatly enjoyed many of his stories. Some of the imagery he employs borders on the indescribable, rich and luxuriant in it's mind bending horrors, and he certainly invented a whole mythos that has stood the test of time.
Many of his works are now in the public domain. You can go here to read some of them, if you are interested.