H. P. Lovecraft

THE COMPLETE POETRY of H. P. Lovecraft
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The Poe-et’s Nightmare

Written: 1916

First Published in The Vagrant, No. 8 (July 1918), Pages 13-23

 A Fable
 Luxus tumultus semper causa est.
 Lucullus Languish, student of the skies,
 And connoisseur of rarebits and mince pies,
 A bard by choice, a grocer’s clerk by trade,
 (Grown pessimist thro’ honours long delay’d),
 A secret yearning bore, that he might shine
 In breathing numbers, and in song divine.
 Each day his fountain pen was wont to drop
 An ode or dirge or two about the shop,
 Yet naught could strike the chord within his heart
 That throbb’d for poesy, and cry’d for art.
 Each eve he sought his bashful Muse to wake
 With overdoses of ice-cream and cake;
 But thou’ th’ ambitious youth a dreamer grew,
 Th’ Aonian Nymph declin’d to come to view.
 Sometimes at dusk he scour’d the heav’ns afar,
 Searching for raptures in the evening star;
 One night he strove to catch a tale untold
 In crystal deeps—but only caught a cold.
 So pin’d Lucullus with his lofty woe,
 Till one drear day he bought a set of Poe:
 Charm’d with the cheerful horrors there display’d,
 He vow’d with gloom to woo the Heav’nly Maid.
 Of Auber’s tarn and Yaanek’s slope he dreams,
 And weaves an hundred Ravens in his schemes.
 Not far from our young hero’s peaceful home
 Lies the fair grove wherein he loves to roam.
 Tho’ but a stunted copse in vacant lot,
 He dubs it Tempe, and adores the spot;
 When shallow puddles dot the wooded plain,
 And brim o’er muddy banks with muddy rain,
 He calls them limpid lakes or poison pools
 (Depending on which bard his fancy rules).
 ’Tis here he comes with Heliconian fire
 On Sundays when he smites the Attic lyre;
 And here one afternoon he brought his gloom,
 Resolv’d to chant a poet’s lay of doom.
 Roget’s Thesaurus, and a book of rhymes,
 Provide the rungs whereon his spirit climbs:
 With this grave retinue he trod the grove
 And pray’d the Fauns he might a Poe-et prove.
 But sad to tell, ere Pegasus flew high,
 The not unrelish’d supper hour drew nigh;
 Our tuneful swain th’ imperious call attends,
 And soon above the groaning table bends.
 Tho’ it were too prosaic to relate
 Th’ exact particulars of what he ate
 (Such long-drawn lists the hasty reader skips,
 Like Homer’s well-known catalogue of ships),
 This much we swear: that as adjournment near’d,
 A monstrous lot of cake had disappear’d!
 Soon to his chamber the young bard repairs,
 And courts soft Somnus with sweet Lydian airs;
 Thro’ open casement scans the star-strown deep,
 And ’neath Orion’s beams sinks off to sleep.
 Now start from airy dell the elfin train
 That dance each midnight o’er the sleeping plain,
 To bless the just, or cast a warning spell
 On those who dine not wisely, but too well.
 First Deacon Smith they plague, whose nasal glow
 Comes from what Holmes hath call’d “Elixir Pro”;
 Group’d round the couch his visage they deride,
 Whilst thro’ his dreams unnumber’d (...)
(......)