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.