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«THE MESSENGER», Говард Лавкрафт

  • The thing, he said, would come in the night at three
  • From the old churchyard on the hill below;
  • But crouching by an oak fire's wholesome glow,
  • I tried to tell myself it could not be.
  • Surely, I mused, it was pleasantry
  • Devised by one who did not truly know
  • The Elder Sign, bequeathed from long ago,
  • That sets the fumbling forms of darkness free.
  • He had not meant it — no — but still I lit
  • Another lamp as starry Leo climbed
  • Out of the Seekonk, and a steeple chimed
  • Three — and the firelight faded, bit by bit.
  • Then at the door that cautious rattling came -
  • And the mad truth devoured me like a flame!

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