H.P. Lovecraft

1890-1937 / Male / American
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Yule HorrorThere is snow on the ground, / And the valleys are cold, / And a midnight profound
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NemesisThrough the ghoul-guarded gateways of slumber, / Past the wan-mooned abysses of night, / I have lived o'er my lives without number,
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DespairO'er the midnight moorlands crying, / Thro' the cypress forests sighing, / In the night-wind madly flying,
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The CityIt was golden and splendid, / That City of light; / A vision suspended
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The Bride of the SeaBlack 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
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The CatsBabels of blocks to the high heavens towering / Flames of futility swirling below; / Poisonous fungi in brick and stone flowering,
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SunsetThe cloudless day is richer at its close; / A golden glory settles on the lea; / Soft, stealing shadows hint of cool repose
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The GardenThere'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,
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Little TigerLittle Tiger, burning bright / With a subtle Blakeish light, / Tell what visions have their home
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AstrophobosIn the Midnight heaven's burning / Through the ethereal deeps afar / Once I watch'd with restless yearning
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