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It was in the spectral summer when the moon shone down on the old garden where I wandered; the spectral summer of narcotic flowers and humid seas of foliage that bring wild and many-coloured dreams. And as I walked by the shallow crystal stream I saw unwonted ripples tipped with yellow light, as if those placid waters were drawn on in resistless currents to strange oceans that are not in the world.

H. P. Lovecraft, What the Moon Brings

Whiter Nights

There's a touch that shan't be named,
A paleness bright in nightshade framed.
Southbound, up, and seeking prey:
Half-nighted sunlight, beyond the grey.

What cover can, deserted ground—
A lustful creed, a thunderous sound.

A finding ways, pursued delight
'Mongst unclear thoughts, that stimulant sprite.
Ne-motanul, intoxicat:
A midnight call, away at that.

What cover can, deserted ground—
A lustful creed, a thunderous sound.

The secret skin is craving touch
In blood-thirst, dew-lust: known as such.
Is craving touch the secret skin,
Aroused, the feline:
Tears seeping in.

And in its tow'r, not far from here
Those drops of dew, one tear too near.
And torn apart, a given choice—
A carnivore with gentle voice.

What cover can, deserted ground—
A lustful creed, a thunderous sound.

What cover can, deserted ground—
A lustful creed, a thunderous sound.


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