Who is Clark Ashton Smith

Clark Ashton Smith (January 13, 1893 – August 14, 1961) was an American writer and artist. He achieved early local recognition, largely through the enthusiasm of George Sterling, for traditional verse in the vein of Swinburne. As a poet, Smith is grouped with the West Coast Romantics alongside Joaquin Miller, Sterling, and Nora May French and remembered as "The Last of the Great Romantics" and "The Bard of Auburn". Smith's work was praised by his contemporaries. H. P. Lovecraft stated that "in sheer daemonic strangeness and fertility of conception, Clark Ashton Smith is perhaps unexcelled", and Ray Bradbury said that Smith "filled my mind with incredible worlds, impossibly beautiful cities, and still more fantastic creatures".Smith was one of "the big three of Weird Tales, with Robert E....
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Clark Ashton Smith Poems

  • A Sunset
    As blood from some enormous hurt
    The sanguine sunset leapt;
    Across it, like a dabbled skirt,
    The hurrying tempest swept....
  • The Mystic Meaning
    Alas! that we are deaf and blind
    To meanings all about us hid!
    What secrets lurk the woods amid?
    What prophecies are on the wind? ...
  • Lethe
    I flow beneath the columns that upbear
    The world, and all the tracts of heaven and hell;
    Foamless I sweep, where sounds nor glimmers tell
    My motion nadir-ward; no moment's flare ...
  • The Unrevealed
    How dense the glooms of Death, impervious
    To aught of old memorial light! How strait
    The sunless road, suspended, separate,
    That leads to later birth! Untremulous ...
  • Fairy Lanterns
    'Tis said these blossom-lanterns light
    The elves upon their midnight way;
    That fairy toil and elfin play
    Receive their beams of magic white. ...
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Top 10 most used topics by Clark Ashton Smith

Night 176 Love 166 I Love You 166 Light 154 Sun 138 Long 114 Dream 107 Moon 104 Heart 102 Lost 100

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Poem of the day

Samuel Taylor Coleridge Poem
This Lime-Tree Bower My Prison
 by Samuel Taylor Coleridge

[Addressed to Charles Lamb, of the India House, London]

In the June of 1797 some long-expected friends paid a visit
to the author's cottage; and on the morning of their arrival,
he met with an accident, which disabled him from walking
during the whole time of their stay. One evening, when they
had left him for a few hours, he composed the following
lines in the garden-bower.

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