Lovecraft Poem of the Week: October For the first week of October.. this ones a bit long, but quite lyrical & lovely... Mellow-faced, with eyes of faery, wistful clad in tinted leaves, See the brown October tarry by the golden rows of sheaves; Oak & acorn in his garland, fruit & wineskin in his hands, Mystic pilgrim from a far land down the road to farther lands. Softly treading, gently breathing, casting spells on wood & wold, Vines with purple clusters wreathing, witching boughs to red & gold; Bearing sicklemen their pleasure when the harvest toil is oer, & the autumns garnered treasure lies within the festive door. Bearing dreams to all who listen as he sounds his elfin horn Where the crystal vapours glisten past the farther hills at morn; Where the sunset hovers playing on the teeming cottage yard Till the cryptic night comes straying in a mitre tall & starred. Dreams elusive & uncertain, fleeting as the dying year, Glimpses from behind the curtain, half to cherish, half to fear; Memories that charm & beckon, vanished scene & vanished face, Phantoms past the worlds we reckon, reaching from the wells of space. Mounting as with necromancy, welcome visions hold the sight; Bygone fields assail the fancy, radiant in a golden light. Ancient lanes lead cool & bending past remembered farms & byres, Where the curling smoke ascending tells of happy autumn fires. I can catch the flaming riot of the oaks & elms I know, & the breathless ruddy quiet of the sunsets spectral glow; & the farmhouse chimney peeping through the scarlet maple shade, & the gorgeous fruits of reaping by the door in order laid. Greens that red & yellow dapple, tints that match the blazing sky; Swelling pumpkin, rosy apple, clustered grapes of Tyrian dye; & behind the orchard reaching where the rolling meadows bide, I can see the corn-shocks bleaching & the stubble stretching wide. Skies alive with southward winging, ravens perched on sheaf & stack, Groves with eager trumpets ringing as the quarry flees the pack; Swains with nuts & fagots plodding homeward to the twilit garth, Soon to cluster, warm & nodding, round their cider & their hearth. Notes of village bells are soaring, peaceful in their vesper tune, As an eery light comes pouring from the rising hunters moon; Wild above the wooded mountains, weirdly shining on the streams, Yellow floods from haunted fountains, witches dancing in the beams. Half-seen sights from outer distance, half-heard sounds from other spheres, Beat with goblin-born insistence on the spirits eyes & ears. Thoughts half thought & yearnings sober, formless as the autumn smoke, These thy gifts, obscure October, these the symbols of thy yoke. Mellow-faced, with eyes of faery, wistful clad in tinted leaves, See the brown October tarry by the golden rows of sheaves; Oak & acorn in his garland, fruit & wineskin in his hands, Mystic pilgrim from a far land down the road to farther lands. (1920 Image: Lucien Levy-Dhurmer
Posted on: Sun, 05 Oct 2014 05:57:41 +0000
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