Lovecraft, H P & Crofts, Anna Helen - Poetry And The Gods
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2024-12-23
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Poetry and the Gods
Poetry and the Gods
by H. P. Lovecraft and Anna Helen Crofts
Written 1920
Published September 1920 in The United Amateur, Vol. 20, No. 1, p. 1-4.
A damp gloomy evening in April it was, just after the close of the Great War, when
Marcia found herself alone with strange thoughts and wishes, unheard-of yearnings
which floated out of the spacious twentieth-century drawing room, up the deeps of the
air, and eastward to olive groves in distant Arcady which she had seen only in her
dreams. She had entered the room in abstraction, turned off the glaring chandeliers, and
now reclined on a soft divan by a solitary lamp which shed over the reading table a green
glow as soothing as moonlight when it issued through the foliage about an antique shrine.
Attired simply, in a low-cut black evening dress, she appeared outwardly a typical
product of modern civilization; but tonight she felt the immeasurable gulf that separated
her soul from all her prosaic surroundings. Was it because of the strange home in which
she lived, that abode of coldness where relations were always strained and the inmates
scarcely more than strangers? Was it that, or was it some greater and less explicable
misplacement in time and space, whereby she had been born too late, too early, or too far
away from the haunts of her spirit ever to harmonize with the unbeautiful things of
contemporary reality? To dispel the mood which was engulfing her more and more
deeply each moment, she took a magazine from the table and searched for some healing
bit of poetry. Poetry had always relieved her troubled mind better than anything else,
though many things in the poetry she had seen detracted from the influence. Over parts of
even the sublimest verses hung a chill vapor of sterile ugliness and restraint, like dust on
a window-pane through which one views a magnificent sunset.
Listlessly turning the magazine's pages, as if searching for an elusive treasure, she
suddenly came upon something which dispelled her languor. An observer could have
read her thoughts and told that she had discovered some image or dream which brought
her nearer to her unattained goal than any image or dream she had seen before. It was
only a bit of vers libre, that pitiful compromise of the poet who overleaps prose yet falls
short of the divine melody of numbers; but it had in it all the unstudied music of a bard
who lives and feels, who gropes ecstatically for unveiled beauty. Devoid of regularity, it
yet had the harmony of winged, spontaneous words, a harmony missing from the formal,
convention-bound verse she had known. As she read on, her surroundings gradually
faded, and soon there lay about her only the mists of dream, the purple, star-strewn mists
beyond time, where only Gods and dreamers walk.
Moon over Japan,
White butterfly moon!
Where the heavy-lidded Buddhas dream
To the sound of the cuckoo's call...
Poetry and the Gods
The white wings of moon butterflies
Flicker down the streets of the city,
Blushing into silence the useless wicks of sound-lanterns in the hands of girls
Moon over the tropics,
A white-curved bud
Opening its petals slowly in the warmth of heaven...
The air is full of odours
And languorous warm sounds...
A flute drones its insect music to the night
Below the curving moon-petal of the heavens.
Moon over China,
Weary moon on the river of the sky,
The stir of light in the willows is like the flashing of a thousand silver minnows
Through dark shoals;
The tiles on graves and rotting temples flash like ripples,
The sky is flecked with clouds like the scales of a dragon.
Amid the mists of dream the reader cried to the rhythmical stars, of her delight at the
coming of a new age of song, a rebirth of Pan. Half closing her eyes, she repeated words
whose melody lay hidden like crystals at the bottom of a stream before dawn, hidden but
to gleam effulgently at the birth of day.
Moon over Japan,
White butterfly moon!
Moon over the tropics,
A white curved bud
Opening its petals slowly in the warmth of heaven.
The air is full of odours
And languorous warm sounds...
Moon over China,
Weary moon on the river of the sky...
Out of the mists gleamed godlike the torm ot a youth, in winged helmet and sandals,
caduceus-bearing, and of a beauty like to nothing on earth. Before the face of the sleeper
he thrice waved the rod which Apollo had given him in trade for the nine-corded shell of
melody, and upon her brow he placed a wreath of myrtle and roses. Then, adoring,
Hermes spoke:
"0 Nymph more fair than the golden-haired sisters of Cyene or the sky-inhabiting
Atlantides, beloved of Aphrodite and blessed of Pallas, thou hast indeed discovered the
secret of the Gods, which lieth in beauty and song. 0 Prophetess more lovely than the
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PoetryandtheGodsPoetryandtheGodsbyH.P.LovecraftandAnnaHelenCroftsWritten1920PublishedSeptember1920inTheUnitedAmateur,Vol.20,No.1,p.1-4.AdampgloomyeveninginAprilitwas,justafterthecloseoftheGreatWar,whenMarciafoundherselfalonewithstrangethoughtsandwishes,unheard-ofyearningswhichfloatedoutofthespacious...
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分类：外语学习
价格：5.9玖币
属性：6 页
大小：104.09KB
格式：PDF
时间：2024-12-23
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