Respite (Lovecraft)

Thru well-kept arbors fruitlessly I stray'd In quest of respite from the causeless woes That throng the weary spirit, and invade The mind too seldom dreamless with repose.

Not neat-hedg'd path, nor garden's radiant grace, Nor crystal fountain playing o'er the green, Could cheer my heart, or from my soul efface The tragedy of things that might have been.

The orchard boughs, bedeck'd with flow'rs of spring, The verdant lawns, with skillful labor shorn, To me no joy nor grateful thrill could bring; In tears I came, and linger'd but to mourn.

One day, in idleness, my footsteps found The weed-chok'd slope that leads to sylvan deeps Where leafy carpets clothe th' untrodden ground, And Nature, unadorn'd, her palace keeps.

'Twas there, in regions to mankind unknown, Where swamp and brake benignant spirits hide, I stood at last, with Nature's God alone, And gain'd the respite that the world deny'd.