The Conservative (Lovecraft)/October 1916/Insomnia

The Thing, am I, that rides the Night,
That clips the wings of Sleep;
The Thing, am I, in sunshine bright
That goads, with hag-mind, deep;
The Thing, am I, with forked knife
That prods the weary bruin,
And snarls when Pleasure strives for life
Within my haunts of Pain.

I laugh: Ha! Ha! Ho! Ho! Ho! Hoo! Hoo!
When all the house is still;
I quaff: Ha! Hal Ho! Ho! Hoo! Hoo!
When ghost-sheep run up hill!
My slaves count hundreds--fives and tens,
Till shadows stab their eyes!
They jump ton thousand sheep in pens
Until their counting lies!

Their music is a fun'ral march;
They see the wreath'd flo'rs fair;
They see their robes, as white as starch,
They feel the Eyes that stare.
They tramp the path of Fear and Flame
That narrows to four walls,
With minds red-hot with Curse and Shame,
Above the Pray'r that falls.

And then, I stage anew the trick
That brought me hell-curs'd gold;
I spread the reek of hunger thick
Upon a white-fac'd fold!
And Mem'ry, loath to serve my ends,
I heckle at the throat,
Till she her Province far extends
Beyond her hate-black moat.

And then - my Slaves will laugh, "Ha! Ha!"
And count sheep white and grey,
And moan in numbers mumblings mar,
Through night, through dawn, through day;
While lips that quiver pray for rest,
And dear hearts crucify,
Till those that dare, 'neath Pity's breast.
In frenzy beg to die!

The Thing, am I, that rides the night,
That clips the wings of sleep;
The Thing, am I, in sunshine bright
That goads, with hag-mind deep;
The Thing, am I, with forked knife
That prods the weary brain,
And snarls when pleasure strives for life
Within my haunts of pain.