Hallowe\u2019en in a Suburb<\/strong><\/p>\nBy H. P. Lovecraft<\/p>\n
The steeples are white in the wild moonlight,<\/p>\n
\u00a0And the trees have a silver glare;<\/p>\n
Past the chimneys high see the vampires fly,<\/p>\n
\u00a0And the harpies of upper air,<\/p>\n
\u00a0That flutter and laugh and stare.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
For the village dead to the moon outspread<\/p>\n
\u00a0Never shone in the sunset\u2019s gleam,<\/p>\n
But grew out of the deep that the dead years keep<\/p>\n
\u00a0Where the rivers of madness stream<\/p>\n
\u00a0Down the gulfs to a pit of dream.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
A chill wind weaves thro\u2019 the rows of sheaves<\/p>\n
\u00a0In the meadows that shimmer pale,<\/p>\n
And comes to twine where the headstones shine<\/p>\n
\u00a0And the ghouls of the churchyard wail<\/p>\n
\u00a0For harvests that fly and fail.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
Not a breath of the strange grey gods of change<\/p>\n
\u00a0That tore from the past its own<\/p>\n
Can quicken this hour, when a spectral pow\u2019r<\/p>\n
\u00a0Spreads sleep o\u2019er the cosmic throne<\/p>\n
\u00a0And looses the vast unknown.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
So here again stretch the vale and plain<\/p>\n
\u00a0That moons long-forgotten saw,<\/p>\n
And the dead leap gay in the pallid ray,<\/p>\n
\u00a0Sprung out of the tomb\u2019s black maw<\/p>\n
\u00a0To shake all the world with awe.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
And all that the morn shall greet forlorn,<\/p>\n
\u00a0The ugliness and the pest<\/p>\n
Of rows where thick rise the stones and brick,<\/p>\n
\u00a0Shall some day be with the rest,<\/p>\n
\u00a0And brood with the shades unblest.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
Then wild in the dark let the lemurs bark,<\/p>\n
\u00a0And the leprous spires ascend;<\/p>\n
For new and old alike in the fold<\/p>\n
\u00a0Of horror and death are penn\u2019d,<\/p>\n
\u00a0For the hounds of Time to rend.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
Like the best poetry, it needs to be read aloud. Like the best Lovecraft, it needs to be read by Andrew Leman. Fortunately, he did so a few years back.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n