The atmosphere is charged with hidden things
—Thoughts that are waiting—wanting to revive
Primeval terrors from their present graves
—Those half-thoughts hidden from the mind of man.
The fear of those bright, countless stars that shine
Celestially serene on summer nights,
—And those, too far for human eye to see—
That make men feel as small and ill at ease
As do the thoughts of immortality;
The fear of seas that stretch beyond our sight
Unspoilt by any memory of a ship—
Strange, silent seas that lap the unknown shores
Of some far-distant, undiscovered land;
The curious fear of caves and horrid depths
Where lurk those monsters that we hide away
And bury in our self-complacency.
The dread of all that waits unseen, yet heard;
The fear of moonlight falling on a face;
The sound of sobs at night, the fear of laughter;
The misty terror lurking in a wood
Which night has wrapped in her soft robe of sighs.
The horror that is felt where man is not,
In lonely lands all dotted with squat trees
That seem to move in the grey twilight breeze
—Or sit and watch you like malicious cripples,
Intent on every movement, every thought—
Where stones, like evil fungi, raise their bulk
Cover'd with lichen older than the hills—
A warning for the ages yet to come;
Stones that have seen the sun, and moon, and stars,
Deflect their course for very weariness.
These fears are gathered, press'd into a room
Vibrating with the wish to damage man;
To put a seal upon his mind and soul—
These fears are fused into a living flame.
The room is filled with men of evil thoughts,
And some poor timid ones, on evil bent.
They stand in anxious, ghastly expectation.
The guttering light is low, and follows them
With subtle shadows tall beyond belief:
Vast elemental shapes that make men feel
Like dusty atoms blown by wayward winds
About the world: shadows that sway and swing.
And sigh and talk, as if themselves alive.
Small shadows cringe about the room incredibly,
Grotesque and dwarf-like in their attitudes;
Malignant, mocking things that caper round—
Triumphant heralds of an evil reign.
Secret and swift they flit about the wall;
Noiseless, they drag their feet about the floor,
And murmur subtle infamies of love,
Sweet-sounding threats, and bribes, and baleful thoughts.
Yet all are waiting, evilly alert...
Yet all are waiting—watching for events.
Silence has ceased to be a negative,
Becomes a thing of substance—fills the room
And clings like ivy to the listening walls.
The flickering light flares up—then gutters out.
The shadows seem to shiver and expand
To active, evil things that breathe and live.
But now they whirl and dance in ecstasy.
The highest moment of their mass is near.
We only feel the swaying of the shades,
—Rhythm of wicked music that escapes
Our consciousness, tho' we have known it long—
The music of the evil things of Night
Scarcely remembered from some dim, vast world—
The things that haunted us when we were young
And nearer to our past realities.
Like scaly snakes, the hymn to evil writhes
Through the sub-conscious basis of our mind.
Eddies of icy breath, or hot as flame,
Twist into all the corners of the room,
Filling our veins with fire like red-hot iron,
And wicked as the Prince of Evil Things.
Faintly his glowing presence is revealed to us
Amid the chorus of his satellites.
The consummation of our awful hopes.