The House

The House by H. P. Lovecraft 

Story copied from the Wikisource.

Warning: This is a Lovecraft's Poetry.

'Tis a grove-circled dwelling Set close to a hill, Where the branches are telling Strange legends of ill; Over timbers so old That they breathe of the dead, Crawl the vines, green and cold, By strange nourishment fed; And no man knows the juices they suck from the depths of their dank slimy bed. In the gardens are growing Tall blossoms and fair, Each pallid bloom throwing Perfume on the air; But the afternoon sun with its shining red rays Makes the picture loom dun On the curious gaze, And above the sween scent of the the blossoms rise odours of numberless days. The rank grasses are waving On terrace and lawn, Dim memories savouring Of things that have gone; The stones of the walks Are encrusted and wet, And a strange spirit stalks When the red sun has set. And the soul of the watcher is fill'd with faint pictures he fain would forget. It was in the hot Junetime I stood by that scene, When the gold rays of noontime Beat bright on the green. But I shiver'd with cold, Groping feebly for light, As a picture unroll'd - And my age-spanning sight Saw the time I had been there before flash like fulgury out of the night.