“Levantó la mano para coger el cuello de Heathcliff y acercar su mejilla a la suya; mientras él, a su vez, cubriéndola de frenéticas caricias, decía ferozmente:

-Ahora me enseñas cuán cruel has sido conmigo, cruel y falsa. ¿Por qué me despreciaste? ¿Por qué traicionaste tu propio corazón, Catalina? No tengo ni una palabra de consuelo. Te lo mereces. Tú misma te has matado. ¡Sí, ya puedes besarme, y llorar, y arrancarme besos y lágrimas; te abrasarán y condenarán! Me amabas, ¿qué derecho tenías de abandonarme? ¿Qué derecho -contéstame- a satisfacer un ruin capricho que tusviste con Linton? Porque ni la miseria, ni el envilecimiento, ni la muerte, ni otro castigo de Dios o Satanás nos hubiera separado. Tú, por tu propia voluntad, lo hiciste. Yo no te he roto el corazón, tú misma te lo has roto; y al romperlo has roto el mío. Tanto peor para mí, si soy fuerte. ¿Quiero acaso vivir? ¿Qué clase de vida será la mía cuando tú…?, ¡Oh Dios, ¿quisieras tú vivir con tu alma en la tumba?!”

Cumbres Borrascosas – Emily Brontë

Festival

by H.P. Lovecraft

 There is snow on the ground,
            And the valleys are cold,
      And a midnight profound
            Blackly squats o’er the wold;
But a light on the hilltops half-seen hints of feastings unhallow’d and old.

      There is death in the clouds,
            There is fear in the night,
      For the dead in their shrouds
            Hail the sun’s turning flight,
And chant wild in the woods as they dance round a Yule-altar fungous and white.

      To no gale of earth’s kind
            Sways the forest of oak,
      Where the sick boughs entwin’d
            By mad mistletoes choke,
For these pow’rs are the pow’rs of the dark, from the graves of the lost Druid-folk.

      And mayst thou to such deeds
            Be an abbot and priest,
      Singing cannibal greeds
            At each devil-wrought feast,
And to all the incredulous world shewing dimly the sign of the beast.

On Reading Lord Dunsany’s Book of Wonder

by H.P. Lovecraft

The hours of night unheeded fly,
      And in the grate the embers fade;
Vast shadows one by one pass by
      In silent daemon cavalcade.

But still the magic volume holds
      The raptur’d eye in realms apart,
And fulgent sorcery enfolds
      The willing mind and eager heart.

The lonely room no more is there—
      For to the sight in pomp appear
Temples and cities pois’d in air
      And blazing glories—sphere on sphere.

A Garden

By H. P. Lovecraft

There’s an ancient, ancient garden that I see sometimes in dreams,

Where the very Maytime sunlight plays and glows with spectral gleams;

Where the gaudy-tinted blossoms seem to wither into grey,

And the crumbling walls and pillars waken thoughts of yesterday.

There are vines in nooks and crannies, and there’s moss about the pool,

And the tangled weedy thicket chokes the arbour dark and cool:

In the silent sunken pathways springs an herbage sparse and spare,

Where the musty scent of dead things dulls the fragrance of the air.

There is not a living creature in the lonely space around,

And the hedge-encompass’d quiet never echoes to a sound.

As I walk, and wait, and listen, I will often seek to find

When it was I knew that garden in an age long left behind;

I will oft conjure a vision of a day that is no more,

As I gaze upon the grey, grey scenes I feel I knew before.

Then a sadness settles o’er me, and a tremor seems to start:

For I know the flow’rs are shrivell’d hopes—the garden is my heart!