Кошмар По-эта. Говард Филлипс Лавкрафт

      Resolv’d to chant a poet’s lay of doom.

      Roget’s Thesaurus, and a book of rhymes,

      Provide the rungs whereon his spirit climbs:

      With this grave retinue he trod the grove

      And pray’d the Fauns he might a Poe-et prove.

      But sad to tell, ere Pegasus flew high,

      The not unrelish’d supper hour drew nigh;

      Our tuneful swain th’ imperious call attends,

      And soon above the groaning table bends.

      Though it were too prosaic to relate

      Th’ exact particulars of what he ate,

      (Such long-drawn lists the hasty reader skips,

      Like Homer’s well-known catalogue of ships)

      This much we swear: that as adjournment near’d,

      A monstrous lot of cake had disappear’d!

      Soon to his chamber the young bard repairs,

      And courts soft Somnus with sweet Lydian airs;

      Thro’ open casement scans the star-strown deep,

      And ‘neath Orion’s beams sinks off to sleep.

      Now start from airy dell the elfin train

      That dance each midnight o’er the sleeping plain,

      To bless the just, or cast a warning spell

      On those who dine not wisely, but too well.

      First Deacon Smith they plague, whose nasal glow

      Comes from what Holmes hath call’d “Elixir Pro”;

      Group’d round the couch his visage they deride,

      Whilst through his dreams unnumber’d serpents glide.

      Next troop the little folk into the room

      Where snore our young Endymion, swath’d in gloom:

      A smile lights up his boyish face, whilst he

      Dreams of the moon – or what he ate at tea.

      The chieftain elf th’ unconscious youth surveys,

      And on his form a strange enchantment lays:

      Those lips, that lately trill’d with frosted cake,

      Uneasy sounds in slumbrous fashion make;

      At length their owner’s fancies they rehearse,

      And lisp this awesome Poe-em in blank verse:

      Небылица

      Чрезмерность враг покоя неизменно.