Thursday, December 8, 2011

The Tavern - Robert E. Howard

There stands, close by a dim, wolf-haunted wood,
A tavern like a monster, brooding thing.
About its sullen gables no birds sing.
Oft a lone traveller, when the moon is blood,
Lights from his horse in quest of sleep and meal.
His footfalls fade within and sound no more;
He comes not forth; but from a secret door
Bearing a grisly burden, shadows steal.
By day, ’neath trees whose silent, green leaves glisten,
The tavern crouches, hating day and light.
A lurking vampire, terrible and lean;
Sometimes behind its windows may be seen
Vague leprous faces, haggard, fungus-white,
That peer and start and ever seem to listen.


3.5 out of 5

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