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Stars, issue 2, December 1940-January 1941
Page 4
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LICHENS By Clark Ashton Smith (Wings, c1933, by Stanton A. Coblentz) Pale-green and black and bronze and grey, In broken arabesque and foliate star, They cling, so closely grown Upon the somber stone, That one would deem they are As much a part thereof as the design Is part of some old porcelain from Cathay-- Some vase of Tang or Ming. Patterned with blossoms intricate and fine And leaves of alien spring Exempt forever from the year's decay. Old, too, they seem, and with the stones coeval-- Fraught with the stillness and the mystery Of time not known to man; Like runs and pentacles of a primeval Unhuman wizardy That none may use nor scan. NOSTALGIA By H. P. Lovecraft (The Phantagraph, 1936) Once every year, in autumn's wistful flow, The birds fly out over an ocean waste, Calling and chattering in a joyous haste To reach some land their inner memories know. Great terraced gardens where bright blossoms blow, And lines of mangoes luscious to the taste, And temple groves with branches overlaced Over cool paths---and all these their vague dreams show. They search the sea for marks of their old shore--- For the tall city, white and turreted--- But only empty waters stretch ahead, So that at last they turn away once more. Yet, sunken deep where alien polyps throng, The old towers miss their lost, remembered song. page 2 Stars
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LICHENS By Clark Ashton Smith (Wings, c1933, by Stanton A. Coblentz) Pale-green and black and bronze and grey, In broken arabesque and foliate star, They cling, so closely grown Upon the somber stone, That one would deem they are As much a part thereof as the design Is part of some old porcelain from Cathay-- Some vase of Tang or Ming. Patterned with blossoms intricate and fine And leaves of alien spring Exempt forever from the year's decay. Old, too, they seem, and with the stones coeval-- Fraught with the stillness and the mystery Of time not known to man; Like runs and pentacles of a primeval Unhuman wizardy That none may use nor scan. NOSTALGIA By H. P. Lovecraft (The Phantagraph, 1936) Once every year, in autumn's wistful flow, The birds fly out over an ocean waste, Calling and chattering in a joyous haste To reach some land their inner memories know. Great terraced gardens where bright blossoms blow, And lines of mangoes luscious to the taste, And temple groves with branches overlaced Over cool paths---and all these their vague dreams show. They search the sea for marks of their old shore--- For the tall city, white and turreted--- But only empty waters stretch ahead, So that at last they turn away once more. Yet, sunken deep where alien polyps throng, The old towers miss their lost, remembered song. page 2 Stars
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