Fungi From Yuggoth by H. P. Lovecraft

Author:H. P. Lovecraft [Lovecraft, H. P.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2011-01-12T07:00:00+00:00

They search the sea for marks of their old shore -

For the tall city, white and turreted -

But only empty waters stretch ahead,

So that at last they turn away once more.

Yet sunken deep where alien polyps throng, The old towers miss their lost, remembered song.

XXX. Background

I never can be tied to raw, new things, For I first saw the light in an old town, Where from my window huddled roofs sloped down To a quaint harbour rich with visionings.

Streets with carved doorways where the sunset beams Flooded old fanlights and small window-panes, And Georgian steeples topped with gilded vanes -

These were the sights that shaped my childhood dreams.

Such treasures, left from times of cautious leaven, Cannot but loose the hold of flimsier wraiths That flit with shifting ways and muddled faiths Across the changeless walls of earth and heaven.

They cut the moment's thongs and leave me free To stand alone before eternity.

XXXI. The Dweller

It had been old when Babylon was new;

None knows how long it slept beneath that mound, Where in the end our questing shovels found Its granite blocks and brought it back to view.

There were vast pavements and foundation-walls, And crumbling slabs and statues, carved to shew Fantastic beings of some long ago

Past anything the world of man recalls.

And then we saw those stone steps leading down Through a choked gate of graven dolomite To some black haven of eternal night

Where elder signs and primal secrets frown.

We cleared a path - but raced in mad retreat When from below we heard those clumping feet.

XXXII. Alienation

His solid flesh had never been away,

For each dawn found him in his usual place, But every night his spirit loved to race Through gulfs and worlds remote from common day.

He had seen Yaddith, yet retained his mind, And come back safely from the Ghooric zone, When one still night across curved space was thrown That beckoning piping from the voids behind.

He waked that morning as an older man,

And nothing since has looked the same to him.

Objects around float nebulous and dim -

False, phantom trifles of some vaster plan.

His folk and friends are now an alien throng To which he struggles vainly to belong.

XXXIII. Harbour Whistles

Over old roofs and past decaying spires The harbour whistles chant all through the night; Throats from strange ports, and beaches far and white, And fabulous oceans, ranged in motley choirs.

Each to the other alien and unknown,

Yet all, by some obscurely focussed force From brooding gulfs beyond the Zodiac's course, Fused into one mysterious cosmic drone.

Through shadowy dreams they send a marching line Of still more shadowy shapes and hints and views; Echoes from outer voids, and subtle clues To things which they themselves cannot define.

And always in that chorus, faintly blent, We catch some notes no earth-ship ever sent.

XXXIV. Recapture

The way led down a dark, half-wooded heath Where moss-grey boulders humped above the mould, And curious drops, disquieting and cold, Sprayed up from unseen streams in gulfs beneath.

There was no wind, nor any trace of sound In puzzling

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