Buo Lai En
The garden within.
Although I've read little of Lovecraft's verse (which he was the first to admit, despite his aspirations, was never his metier), I have read every one of his stories, and a probably unhealthy amount of his biography.
This poem is particularly poignant in light of the litany of disappointments that followed this brilliant author through life until he died in want at the age of 47. Like his antecedent, Edgar Allan Poe, Lovecraft was a literary virtuoso who defined a genre and stirred millions in the decades after his death, but in life he was never recognized, never rewarded, never respected.
Why does our society treat its geniuses so shabbily?