The House (Lovecraft)

'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.