Abraham "Bram" Stoker (November 8, 1847 – April 20, 1912) was an Irish novelist and short story writer, best known today for his 1897 Gothic novel Dracula. During his lifetime, he was better known as personal assistant of actor Henry Irving and business manager of the Lyceum Theatre in London, which Irving owned.

H. P. Lovecraft: Nemesis

H. P. Lovecraft, Halloween poem, Vampire poetry, Vampire poems, Dark Poems, Dark Poetry, Gothic poetry, Goth poetry, Horror poetry, Horror poems


Through the ghoul-guarded gateways of slumber,
   Past the wan-mooned abysses of night,
I have lived o'er my lives without number,
   I have sounded all things with my sight;
And I struggle and shriek ere the daybreak, being driven to madness with fright.

I have whirled with the earth at the dawning,
   When the sky was a vaporous flame;
I have seen the dark universe yawning
   Where the black planets roll without aim,
Where they roll in their horror unheeded, without knowledge or lustre or name.

I had drifted o'er seas without ending,
   Under sinister grey-clouded skies,
That the many-forked lightning is rending,
   That resound with hysterical cries;
With the moans of invisible daemons, that out of the green waters rise.

I have plunged like a deer through the arches
   Of the hoary primoridal grove,
Where the oaks feel the presence that marches,
   And stalks on where no spirit dares rove,
And I flee from a thing that surrounds me, and leers through dead branches above.

I have stumbled by cave-ridden mountains
   That rise barren and bleak from the plain,
I have drunk of the fog-foetid fountains
   That ooze down to the marsh and the main;
And in hot cursed tarns I have seen things, I care not to gaze on again.

I have scanned the vast ivy-clad palace,
   I have trod its untenanted hall,
Where the moon rising up from the valleys
   Shows the tapestried things on the wall;
Strange figures discordantly woven, that I cannot endure to recall.

I have peered from the casements in wonder
   At the mouldering meadows around,
At the many-roofed village laid under
   The curse of a grave-girdled ground;
And from rows of white urn-carven marble, I listen intently for sound.

I have haunted the tombs of the ages,
   I have flown on the pinions of fear,
Where the smoke-belching Erebus rages;
   Where the jokulls loom snow-clad and drear:
And in realms where the sun of the desert consumes what it never can cheer.

I was old when the pharaohs first mounted
   The jewel-decked throne by the Nile;
I was old in those epochs uncounted
   When I, and I only, was vile;
And Man, yet untainted and happy, dwelt in bliss on the far Arctic isle.

Oh, great was the sin of my spirit,
   And great is the reach of its doom;
Not the pity of Heaven can cheer it,
   Nor can respite be found in the tomb:
Down the infinite aeons come beating the wings of unmerciful gloom.

Through the ghoul-guarded gateways of slumber,
   Past the wan-mooned abysses of night,
I have lived o'er my lives without number,
   I have sounded all things with my sight;
And I struggle and shriek ere the daybreak, being driven to madness with fright.

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