by H. P. Lovecraft

There is wonder on land and billow,
      And a strangeness in bough and vein,
For the brook and the budded willow
      Feel the Presence walking again.
It has come in the olden fashion,
      As the tritest of lutes have sung,
But it carries the olden passion
      That can never be aught but young.

There are whispers from groves auroral
      To blood half-afraid to hear,
While the evening stars' faint choral
      Is an ecstasy touched with fear.
And at night where the hill-wraiths rally
      Glows the far Walpurgis flame,
Which the lonely swain in the valley
      Beholds, though he dare not name.

And in every wild breeze falling
      Out of spaces beyond the sky,
There are ancient voices calling
      To regions remote and high;
To the gardens of elfin glory
      That lie o'er the purple seas,
And mansions of dream and story
      From childhood memories.

I am called where the still dawns glitter
      On pastures and furrowed crests,
And the thrush and the wood-lark twitter
      Low over their brookside nests;
Where the smoke of the cottage hovers,
      And the elm-buds promise their shade,
And a carpet of new green covers
      The floor of the forest glade.

I am called where the vales are dreaming
      In golden, celestial light,
With the gables of castles gleaming,
      And village roofs steep and bright;
With distant spires set slimly
      Over tangles of twining boughs,
And a ribbon of river seen dimly
      Through fields that the farmer ploughs.

I am called where a twilight ocean
      Laps the piers of an ancient town,
And dream-ships in ghostly motion
      Ride at anchor up and down;
Where sea-lanes narrow and bending
      Climb steep through the fragrant gloom
Of chimneys and gambrels blending
      With orchard branches in bloom.

And when o'er the waves enchanted
      The moon and the stars appear,
I am haunted -- haunted -- haunted --
      By dreams of a mystic year;
Of a year long lost in the dawning,
      When the planets were vague and pale,
And the chasms of space were yawning
      To vistas that fade and fail.

I am hunted by recollections
      Of lands that were not of earth,
Of places where mad perfections
      In horror were brought to birth;
Where pylons of onyx mounted
      To heavens with fire embowered,
And turrets and domes uncounted
      O'er the terraced torrents towered.

I am called to these reachless regions
      In tones that are old and known,
By a chorus of phantom legions
      That must have been once my own --
But the spell is a charm swift-fleeting,
      And the earth has a potent thrall,
So I never have known the freeing,
      Or heeded the springtime's call.