The Harvest Is Having a Bad Year
A chill wind weaves thro’ the rows of sheaves
In the meadows that shimmer pale,
And comes to twine where the headstones shine
And the ghouls of the churchyard wail
For harvests that fly and fail.
Now we get a chill wind moving through the fields, shining headstones and ghouls haunting the churchyard.
Because apparently the local harvest festival wasn't depressing enough.
The imagery here is heavily connected to autumn and decay.
Fields.
Sheaves.
Headstones.
The churchyard.
The harvest.
Everything belongs to the same seasonal atmosphere.
But Lovecraft turns that familiar autumn imagery toward death.
The ghouls aren't simply hanging around the cemetery looking menacing.
They are lamenting harvests that disappear and fail.
That creates an interesting connection between nature, death and time.
The harvest comes.
The harvest goes.
People live.
People die.
And eventually everything becomes part of the same cycle.
Which is an unusually Lovecraftian way of saying:
Enjoy your pumpkin spice while you still can.
