Into the waving green gardens came the Cimmerian, and as the dawn wind blew upon him with the cool fragrance of luxuriant growths, he started like a man waking from a dream. He turned back uncertainly, to stare at the cryptic tower he had just left. Was he bewitched and enchanted? Had he dreamed all that had seemed to have passed? As he looked he saw the gleaming tower sway against the crimson dawn, its jewel-crusted rim sparkling in the growing light, and crash into shining shards.
AUTUMN
Weird Tales, April 1933
Now is the lyre of Homer flecked with rust,
And yellow leaves are blown across the world,
And naked trees that shake at every gust
Stand gaunt against the clouds autumnal-curled.
Now from the hollow moaning of the sea
The dreary birds against the sunset fly,
And drifting down the sad wind’s ghostly dree
A breath of music echoes with a sigh.
The barren branch shakes down the withered fruit,
The seas faint footprints on the strand erase;
The sere leaves fall on a forgotten lute,
And autumn’s arms enfold a dying race.
MOONLIGHT ON A SKULL
Weird Tales, May 1933
Golden goats on a hillside black,
Silken gown on a wharf-side trull,
What are dreams in a shadowed skull?
I stood at a shrine and Chiron died,
A woman laughed from the purple roofs,
And he burned and lived and rose in his pride
And shattered the tiles with clanging hoofs.
I opened a volume dark and rare,
I lighted a candle of mystic lore—
Bare feet throbbed on the outer stair
And book and candle sank to the floor.
Ships that reel on the windy sea,
Lovers that take the world to wife,
What may the Traitress hold for me
Who scarce have lifted the veil of life?