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Acolyte, v. 2, issue 2, whole no. 6, Spring 1944
31858063101376_011
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AMOR - CLARK ASHTON SMITH This is the fire of Hestia's careful hearth; The flame that fed on many-towered Troy; Selene's light about the Latmian boy; The all-consuming ardor of Melkarth. This is the peregrine star that will return, Faithful to the olden ephemerides; The torch of corybantic mysteries; The spark still burning in the stoppered urn. This the lamp ancestral hands have lit Deep in the doorless crypts of blood and bone.... For you and me, it is a witch-fire blown Where secret airs and obscure pinions flit That has outburned Walpurgis and the moon And lifts in quenchless rose to a cloudy noon. THE SHADOW OVER INNSMOUTH, (cont). out to sea in the direction of Devil Reef--but the lure of the whiskey was too strong for him to resist. After we had found a seat on the edge of a rotting wharf I gave him a pull at the bottle and waited for it to take effect. Naturally I graduated the doses very carefully, for I did not wish the old man's loquacity to turn into a stupor. As he grew more mellow, I began to venture into some remarks and inquiries about Innsmouth, and was really startled by the terrible and sincere portentousness of his lowered voice. He did not seem as crazy as his wild tales would indicate, and I found myself shuddering even when I could not believe his fantastic inventiveness. I hardly wondered at the naive credulity of superstitious Father Iwanich.... HAUNTED HOUSE - SARA BORSCHOW Broken doorframes, swaying loose, Shrieking shrilly in the breeze-- Hollow windows without lights-- Avid, vampire maws are these-- Crumbling chimneys, grassgrown floors, Telling tales of yesterday-- All without is grim despair; All within is rank decay. The restless dead by windows flit With green hell-lanterns in their grasp. They, grinning, grit their pointed teeth; Their fleshless bones, they rasp. They turn the warmest blood to ice; They rattle chains, and wail and moan; And only heaven can save the wretch Who ventures there at night, alone. -- 7 --
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AMOR - CLARK ASHTON SMITH This is the fire of Hestia's careful hearth; The flame that fed on many-towered Troy; Selene's light about the Latmian boy; The all-consuming ardor of Melkarth. This is the peregrine star that will return, Faithful to the olden ephemerides; The torch of corybantic mysteries; The spark still burning in the stoppered urn. This the lamp ancestral hands have lit Deep in the doorless crypts of blood and bone.... For you and me, it is a witch-fire blown Where secret airs and obscure pinions flit That has outburned Walpurgis and the moon And lifts in quenchless rose to a cloudy noon. THE SHADOW OVER INNSMOUTH, (cont). out to sea in the direction of Devil Reef--but the lure of the whiskey was too strong for him to resist. After we had found a seat on the edge of a rotting wharf I gave him a pull at the bottle and waited for it to take effect. Naturally I graduated the doses very carefully, for I did not wish the old man's loquacity to turn into a stupor. As he grew more mellow, I began to venture into some remarks and inquiries about Innsmouth, and was really startled by the terrible and sincere portentousness of his lowered voice. He did not seem as crazy as his wild tales would indicate, and I found myself shuddering even when I could not believe his fantastic inventiveness. I hardly wondered at the naive credulity of superstitious Father Iwanich.... HAUNTED HOUSE - SARA BORSCHOW Broken doorframes, swaying loose, Shrieking shrilly in the breeze-- Hollow windows without lights-- Avid, vampire maws are these-- Crumbling chimneys, grassgrown floors, Telling tales of yesterday-- All without is grim despair; All within is rank decay. The restless dead by windows flit With green hell-lanterns in their grasp. They, grinning, grit their pointed teeth; Their fleshless bones, they rasp. They turn the warmest blood to ice; They rattle chains, and wail and moan; And only heaven can save the wretch Who ventures there at night, alone. -- 7 --
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