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Sir Thomas Tryout
By H. P. Lovecraft

Died Nov. 15, 1921

To the venerable cat of a quaint gentleman in His Majesty’s Province of ye Massachusetts-Bay, who publishes an amateur magazine call’d The Tryout.

The autumn hearth is strangely cold
      Despite the leaping flame,
And all the cheer that shone of old
      Seems lessen’d, dull’d, and tame.

For on the rug where lately doz’d
      A small and furry form,
An empty space is now disclos’d,
      That no mere blaze can warm.

The frosty plain and woodland walk
      In equal sadness sigh
For one who may no longer stalk
      With sylvan hunter’s eye.

And if as olden Grecians tell,
      Amidst the thickets deep
A host of fauns and dryads dwell,
      I know that they must weep.

Must weep when autumn twilight brings
      Its mem’ries quaint to view,
Of all the little playful things
      That TOM was wont to do.

So tho’ the busy world may pass
      With ne’er a tearful sign
The tiny mound of struggling grass
      Beneath the garden vine,

There’s many an eye that fills tonight,
      And many a pensive strain
That sounds for him who stole from sight
      In the November rain.

No sage can trace his soul’s advance,
      Or say it lives at all,
For Death against our curious glance
      Has rear’d a mighty wall.

Yet tender Fancy fain would stray
      To fair Hesperian bow’rs,
Where TOM may always purr and play
      Amidst the sun and flow’rs.
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