Lovecraft had other things on his mind at the very end of 1924, having reached a pretty low point in New York City. But had he glanced at the back of the latest new edition of Popular Astronomy in the library, he might have noted a wistful poem from nearby…

THE OLD AMATEUR.

What matters it that, weary and alone,
I sit and think of things I might have done?
What matters it that wife and children shun
In me a dreamer, a mere rolling stone?
What matters it that rustic neighbors fear
In me a madman, all because I know
The motions of the comets and the flow
Of time, that travels on from year to year?
What matters it? There are far better men
To count the days and aeons, as they run,
And weigh this planet that we dwell upon.
But yet, I feel it matters somewhat, when——
What matters it?——I see, across the wire,
The transit of the star of my desire.

R. BURNSIDE POTTER.
Smithtown, Long Island.

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