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Говард Лавкрафт , Говард Филлипс Лавкрафт

It was in the pale gardens of Zaïs;The mist-shrouded gardens of Zaïs,Where blossoms the white nephalotë,The redolent herald of midnight.There slumber the still lakes of crystal,And streamlets that flow without murm’ring;Smooth streamlets from caverns of KathosWhere brood the calm spirits of twilight.And over the lakes and the streamletsAre bridges of pure alabaster,White bridges all cunningly carvenWith figures of fairies and daemons.Here glimmer strange suns and strange planets,And strange is the crescent BanapisThat sets ‘yond the ivy-grown rampartsWhere thickens the dusk of the evening.Here fall the white vapours of Yabon;And here in the swirl of vapoursI saw the divine Nathicana;The garlanded, white Nathicana;The slender, black-hair’d Nathicana;The slow-ey’d, red-lipp’d Nathicana;The silver-voic’d, sweet Nathicana;The pale-rob’d, belov’d Nathicana.And ever was she my belovèd,From ages when time was unfashion’d;From days when the stars were not fashion’dNor any thing fashion’d but Yabon.And here dwelt we ever and ever,The innocent children of Zaïs,At peace in the paths and the arbours,White-crown’d with the blest nephalotë.O’er flow’r-cover’d pastures and hillsidesAll white with the lowly astalthon;The lowly yet lovely astalthon,And dream in a world made of dreamingThe dreams that are fairer than Aidenn;Bright dreams that are truer than reason!So dream’d and so lov’d we thro’ ages,Till came the curs’d season of Dzannin;The daemon-damn’d season of Dzannin;When red shone the suns and the planets,And red gleam’d the crescent Banapis,And red fell the vapours of Yabon.Then redden’d the blossoms and streamletsAnd lakes that lay under the bridges,And even the calm alabasterGlow’d pink with uncanny reflectionsTill all the carv’d fairies and daemonsLeer’d redly from the backgrounds of shadow.Now redden’d my vision, and madlyI strove to peer thro’ the dense curtainAnd glimpse the divine Nathicana;The pure, ever-pale Nathicana;The lov’d, the unchang’d Nathicana.But vortex on vortex of madnessBeclouded my labouring vision;My damnable, reddening visionThat built a new world for my seeing;A new world of redness and darkness,A horrible coma call’d living.So now in this coma call’d livingI view the bright phantoms of beauty;The false, hollow phantoms of beautyThat cloak all the evils of Dzannin.I view them with infinite longing,So like do they seem to my lov’d one;So shapely and fair like my lov’d one;Yet foul from their eyes shines their evil;Their cruel and pitiless evil,More evil than Thaphron and Latgoz,Twice ill for its gorgeous concealment.And only in slumbers of midnightAppears the lost maid Nathicana,The pallid, the pure NathicanaWho fades at the glance of the dreamer.Again and again do I seek her;I woo with deep draughts of Plathotis,Deep draughts brew’d in wine of AstarteAnd strengthen’d with tears of long weeping.I yearn for the gardens of Zaïs;The lovely lost gardens of ZaïsWhere blossoms the white nephalotë,The redolent herald of midnight.The last potent draught am I brewing;A draught that the daemons delight in;A draught that will banish the redness;The horrible coma call’d living.Soon, soon, if I fail not in brewing,The redness and madness will vanish,And deep in the worm-people’d darknessWill rot the base chains that have bound me.Once more shall the gardens of ZaïsDawn white on my long-tortur’d vision,And there midst the vapours of YabonWill stand the divine Nathicana;The deathless, restor’d NathicanaWhose like is not met with in living.

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