Y EL ÓBOLO BAJO LA LENGUA

                         THE MESSENGER

The thing, he said, would come in the night at three

From the old churchyard on the hill below;

But crouching by an oak fire's wholesome glow,

I tried to tell myself it could not be.

Surely, I mused, it was pleasantry

Devised by one who did not truly know

The Elder Sign, bequeathed from long ago,

That sets the fumbling forms of darkness free.

He had not meant it - no - but still I lit

Another lamp as starry Leo climbed

Out of the Seekonk, and a steeple chimed

Three - and the firelight faded, bit by bit.

Then at the door that cautious rattling came -

And the mad truth devoured me like a flame!

                                       Howard Phillips Lovecraft.

Y EL ÓBOLO BAJO LA LENGUA

                  THE BOOK

The place was dark and dusty and half-lost
In tangles of old alleys near the quays,
Reeking of strange things brought in from the seas,
And with queer curls of fog that west winds tossed.
Small lozenge panes, obscured by smoke and frost,
Just shewed the books, in piles like twisted trees,
Rotting from floor to roof—congeries
Of crumbling elder lore at little cost.

I entered, charmed, and from a cobwebbed heap
Took up the nearest tome and thumbed it through,
Trembling at curious words that seemed to keep
Some secret, monstrous if one only knew.
Then, looking for some seller old in craft,
I could find nothing but a voice that laughed.

H. P. Lovecraft.