Selections from Poe

THE SLEEPER

At midnight, in the month of June,I stand beneath the mystic moon.An opiate vapor, dewy, dim,Exhales from out her golden rim,And, softly dripping, drop by drop,Upon the quiet mountain-top,Steals drowsily and musicallyInto the universal valley.The rosemary nods upon the grave;The lily lolls upon the wave;Wrapping the fog about its breast,The ruin moulders into rest;Looking like Lethe, see! the lakeA conscious slumber seems to take,And would not, for the world, awake.All beauty sleeps! – and lo! where liesIrene, with her destinies!Oh lady bright! can it be right,This window open to the night?The wanton airs, from the tree-top,Laughingly through the lattice drop;The bodiless airs, a wizard rout,Flit through thy chamber in and out,And wave the curtain canopySo fitfully, so fearfully,Above the closed and fringéd lid'Neath which thy slumb'ring soul lies hid,That, o'er the floor and down the wall,Like ghosts the shadows rise and fall.Oh lady dear, hast thou no fear?Why and what art thou dreaming here?Sure thou art come o'er far-off seas,A wonder to these garden trees!Strange is thy pallor: strange thy dress:Strange, above all, thy length of tress,And this all solemn silentness!The lady sleeps. Oh, may her sleep,Which is enduring, so be deep!Heaven have her in its sacred keep!This chamber changed for one more holy,This bed for one more melancholy,I pray to God that she may lieForever with unopened eye,While the pale sheeted ghosts go by!My love, she sleeps. Oh, may her sleep,As it is lasting, so be deep!Soft may the worms about her creep!Far in the forest, dim and old,For her may some tall vault unfold:Some vault that oft hath flung its blackAnd winged pannels fluttering back,Triumphant, o'er the crested pallsOf her grand family funerals:Some sepulchre, remote, alone,Against whose portal she hath thrown,In childhood, many an idle stone:Some tomb from out whose sounding doorShe ne'er shall force an echo more,Thrilling to think, poor child of sin,It was the dead who groaned within!

LENORE

Ah, broken is the golden bowl! the spirit flown foreverLet the bell toll! – a saintly soul floats on the Stygian river;And, Guy De Vere, hast thou no tear? – weep now or never more!See, on yon drear and rigid bier low lies thy love, Lenore!Come, let the burial rite be read – the funeral song be sung,An anthem for the queenliest dead that ever died so young,A dirge for her the doubly dead in that she died so young."Wretches, ye loved her for her wealth and hated her for her pride,And when she fell in feeble health, ye blessed her – that she died!How shall the ritual, then, be read? the requiem how be sungBy you – by yours, the evil eye, – by yours, the slanderous tongueThat did to death the innocence that died, and died so young?"Peccanimus; but rave not thus! and let a Sabbath songGo up to God so solemnly the dead may feel no wrong.The sweet Lenore hath gone before, with Hope that flew beside,Leaving thee wild for the dear child that should have been thy bride:For her, the fair and debonair, that now so lowly lies,The life upon her yellow hair but not within her eyes;The life still there, upon her hair – the death upon her eyes."Avaunt! avaunt! from friends below, the indignant ghost is riven —From Hell unto a high estate far up within the Heaven —From grief and groan, to a golden throne, beside the King of Heaven!Let no bell toll, then, – lest her soul, amid its hallowed mirth,Should catch the note as it doth float up from the damnéd Earth!And I! – to-night my heart is light! – No dirge will I upraise,But waft the angel on her flight with a Pæan of old days."

THE VALLEY OF UNREST

Once it smiled a silent dellWhere the people did not dwell;They had gone unto the wars,Trusting to the mild-eyed stars,Nightly, from their azure towers,To keep watch above the flowers,In the midst of which all dayThe red sunlight lazily lay.Now each visitor shall confessThe sad valley's restlessness.Nothing there is motionless,Nothing save the airs that broodOver the magic solitude.Ah, by no wind are stirred those treesThat palpitate like the chill seasAround the misty Hebrides!Ah, by no wind those clouds are drivenThat rustle through the unquiet HeavenUneasily, from morn till even,Over the violets there that lieIn myriad types of the human eye,Over the lilies there that waveAnd weep above a nameless grave!They wave: – from out their fragrant topsEternal dews come down in drops.They weep: – from off their delicate stemsPerennial, tears descend in gems.

THE COLISEUM

Type of the antique Rome! Rich reliquaryOf lofty contemplation left to TimeBy buried centuries of pomp and power!At length – at length – after so many daysOf weary pilgrimage and burning thirst(Thirst for the springs of lore that in thee lie),I kneel, an altered and an humble man,Amid thy shadows, and so drink withinMy very soul thy grandeur, gloom, and glory.Vastness, and Age, and Memories of Eld!Silence, and Desolation, and dim Night!I feel ye now, I feel ye in your strength,O spells more sure than e'er Judæan kingTaught in the gardens of Gethsemane!O charms more potent than the rapt ChaldeeEver drew down from out the quiet stars!Here, where a hero fell, a column falls!Here, where the mimic eagle glared in gold,A midnight vigil holds the swarthy bat;Here, where the dames of Rome their gilded hairWaved to the wind, now wave the reed and thistle;Here, where on golden throne the monarch lolled,Glides, spectre-like, unto his marble home,Lit by the wan light of the hornéd moon,The swift and silent lizard of the stones.But stay! these walls, these ivy-clad arcades,These mouldering plinths, these sad and blackened shafts,These vague entablatures, this crumbling frieze,These shattered cornices, this wreck, this ruin,These stones – alas! these gray stones – are they all,All of the famed and the colossal leftBy the corrosive Hours to Fate and me?"Not all" – the Echoes answer me – "not all!Prophetic sounds and loud arise foreverFrom us, and from all Ruin, unto the wise,As melody from Memnon to the Sun.We rule the hearts of mightiest men – we ruleWith a despotic sway all giant minds.We are not impotent, we pallid stones:Not all our power is gone, not all our fame,Not all the magic of our high renown,Not all the wonder that encircles us,Not all the mysteries that in us lie,Not all the memories that hang uponAnd cling around about us as a garment,Clothing us in a robe of more than glory."

HYMN

At morn – at noon – at twilight dim,Maria! thou hast heard my hymn.In joy and woe, in good and ill,Mother of God, be with me still!When the hours flew brightly by,And not a cloud obscured the sky,My soul, lest it should truant be,Thy grace did guide to thine and thee.Now, when storms of fate o'ercastDarkly my Present and my Past,Let my Future radiant shineWith sweet hopes of thee and thine!

TO ONE IN PARADISE

Thou wast all that to me, love,  For which my soul did pine:A green isle in the sea, love,  A fountain and a shrineAll wreathed with fairy fruits and flowers,  And all the flowers were mine.Ah, dream too bright to last!  Ah, starry Hope, that didst ariseBut to be overcast!  A voice from out the Future cries,"On! on!" – but o'er the Past  (Dim gulf!) my spirit hovering liesMute, motionless, aghast.For, alas! alas! with me  The light of Life is o'er!  No more – no more – no more —(Such language holds the solemn sea  To the sands upon the shore)Shall bloom the thunder-blasted tree,  Or the stricken eagle soar.And all my days are trances,  And all my nightly dreamsAre where thy gray eye glances,  And where thy footstep gleams —In what ethereal dances,  By what eternal streams.

TO F —

Beloved! amid the earnest woes  That crowd around my earthly path(Drear path, alas! where growsNot even one lonely rose),  My soul at least a solace hathIn dreams of thee, and therein knowsAn Eden of bland repose.And thus thy memory is to me  Like some enchanted far-off isleIn some tumultuous sea, —Some ocean throbbing far and free  With storms, but where meanwhileSerenest skies continually  Just o'er that one bright island smile.

TO F – S S. O – D

Thou wouldst be loved? – then let thy heart  From its present pathway part not:Being everything which now thou art,  Be nothing which thou art not.So with the world thy gentle ways,  Thy grace, thy more than beauty,Shall be an endless theme of praise,  And love – a simple duty.

TO ZANTE

Fair isle, that from the fairest of all flowers  Thy gentlest of all gentle names dost take,How many memories of what radiant hours  At sight of thee and thine at once awake!How many scenes of what departed bliss,  How many thoughts of what entombéd hopes,How many visions of a maiden that is  No more – no more upon thy verdant slopes!No more! alas, that magical sad sound  Transforming all! Thy charms shall please no more,Thy memory no more. Accurséd ground!  Henceforth I hold thy flower-enamelled shore,O hyacinthine isle! O purple Zante!  "Isola d'oro! Fior di Levante!"

BRIDAL BALLAD

The ring is on my hand,  And the wreath is on my brow;Satins and jewels grandAre all at my command,  And I am happy now.And my lord he loves me well;  But, when first he breathed his vow,I felt my bosom swell,For the words rang as a knell,And the voice seemed his who fellIn the battle down the dell,  And who is happy now.But he spoke to reassure me,  And he kissed my pallid brow,While a reverie came o'er me,And to the church-yard bore me,And I sighed to him before me,Thinking him dead D'Elormie,  "Oh, I am happy now!"And thus the words were spoken,  And this the plighted vow;And though my faith be broken,And though my heart be broken,Here is a ring, as token  That I am happy now!Would God I could awaken!  For I dream I know not how,And my soul is sorely shakenLest an evil step be taken,Lest the dead who is forsaken  May not be happy now.

SILENCE

There are some qualities, some incorporate things,  That have a double life, which thus is madeA type of that twin entity which springs  From matter and light, evinced in solid and shade.There is a twofold Silence – sea and shore,  Body and soul. One dwells in lonely places,  Newly with grass o'ergrown; some solemn graces,Some human memories and tearful lore,Render him terrorless: his name's "No More."He is the corporate Silence: dread him not:  No power hath he of evil in himself;But should some urgent fate (untimely lot!)  Bring thee to meet his shadow (nameless elf,That haunteth the lone regions where hath trodNo foot of man), commend thyself to God!

THE CONQUEROR WORM

Lo! 't is a gala night  Within the lonesome latter years.An angel throng, bewinged, bedight  In veils, and drowned in tears,Sit in a theatre to see  A play of hopes and fears,While the orchestra breathes fitfully  The music of the spheres.Mimes, in the form of God on high,  Mutter and mumble low,And hither and thither fly;  Mere puppets they, who come and goAt bidding of vast formless things  That shift the scenery to and fro,Flapping from out their condor wings  Invisible Woe.That motley drama – oh, be sure  It shall not be forgot!With its Phantom chased for evermore  By a crowd that seize it not,Through a circle that ever returneth in  To the self-same spot;And much of Madness, and more of Sin,  And Horror the soul of the plot.But see amid the mimic rout  A crawling shape, intrude:A blood-red thing that writhes from out  The scenic solitude!It writhes – it writhes! – with mortal pangs  The mimes become its food,And seraphs sob at vermin fangs  In human gore imbued.Out – out are the lights – out all!  And over each quivering formThe curtain, a funeral pall,  Comes down with the rush of a storm,While the angels, all pallid and wan,  Uprising, unveiling, affirmThat the play is the tragedy, "Man,"  And its hero, the Conqueror Worm.

DREAM-LAND

By a route obscure and lonely,Haunted by ill angels only,Where an Eidolon, named Night,On a black throne reigns upright,I have reached these lands but newlyFrom an ultimate dim Thule:From a wild weird clime that lieth, sublime,  Out of Space – out of Time.Bottomless vales and boundless floods,And chasms and caves and Titan woods,With forms that no man can discoverFor the tears that drip all over;Mountains toppling evermoreInto seas without a shore;Seas that restlessly aspire,Surging, unto skies of fire;Lakes that endlessly outspreadTheir lone waters, lone and dead, —Their still waters, still and chillyWith the snows of the lolling lily.By the lakes that thus outspreadTheir lone waters, lone and dead, —Their sad waters, sad and chillyWith the snows of the lolling lily;By the mountains – near the riverMurmuring lowly, murmuring ever;By the gray woods, by the swampWhere the toad and the newt encamp;By the dismal tarns and pools    Where dwell the Ghouls;By each spot the most unholy,In each nook most melancholy, —There the traveller meets aghastSheeted Memories of the Past:Shrouded forms that start and sighAs they pass the wanderer by,White-robed forms of friends long given,In agony, to the Earth – and Heaven.For the heart whose woes are legion'T is a peaceful, soothing region;For the spirit that walks in shadow'T is – oh, 't is an Eldorado!But the traveller, travelling through it,May not – dare not openly view it;Never its mysteries are exposedTo the weak human eye unclosed;So wills its King, who hath forbidThe uplifting of the fringéd lid;And thus the sad Soul that here passesBeholds it but through darkened glasses.By a route obscure and lonely,Haunted by ill angels only,Where an Eidolon, named Night,On a black throne reigns upright,I have wandered home but newlyFrom this ultimate dim Thule.

THE RAVEN

Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,Over many a quaint and curious volume of, forgotten lore, —While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door."'Tis some visitor," I muttered, "tapping at my chamber door:          Only this and nothing more."Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December,And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.Eagerly I wished the morrow; – vainly I had sought to borrowFrom my books surcease of sorrow – sorrow for the lost Lenore,For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore:          Nameless here forevermore.And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtainThrilled me – filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating"'T is some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door,Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door:          This it is and nothing more."Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,"Sir," said I, "or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door,That I scarce was sure I heard you" – here I opened wide the door: —          Darkness there and nothing more.Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortals ever dared to dream before;But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token,And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, "Lenore?"This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, "Lenore:"          Merely this and nothing more.Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before."Surely," said I, "surely that is something at my window lattice;Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore;Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore:          'T is the wind and nothing more."Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,In there stepped a stately Raven of the saintly days of yore.Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he;But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door,Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door:          Perched, and sat, and nothing more.Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smilingBy the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore, —"Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou," I said, "art sure no craven,Ghastly grim and ancient Raven wandering from the Nightly shore:Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night's Plutonian shore!"          Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,Though its answer little meaning – little relevancy bore;For we cannot help agreeing that no living human beingEver yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door,Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door,          With such name as "Nevermore."But the Raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke onlyThat one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.Nothing further then he uttered, not a feather then he fluttered,Till I scarcely more than muttered, – "Other friends have flown before;On the morrow he will leave me, as my Hopes have flown before."          Then the bird said, "Nevermore."Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,"Doubtless," said I, "what it utters is its only stock and store,Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful DisasterFollowed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden boreTill the dirges of his Hope that melancholy burden bore          Of 'Never – nevermore.'"But the Raven still beguiling all my fancy into smiling,Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird and bust and door;Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linkingFancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore,What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore          Meant in croaking "Nevermore."This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressingTo the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom's core;This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease recliningOn the cushion's velvet lining that the lamp-light gloated o'er,But whose velvet violet lining with the lamp-light gloating o'er          She shall press, ah, nevermore!Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censerSwung by seraphim whose foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor."Wretch," I cried, "thy God hath lent thee – by these angels he hath sent theeRespite – respite and nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore!Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe, and forget this lost Lenore!"          Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore.""Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil! prophet still, if bird or devil!Whether Tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted —On this home by Horror haunted – tell me truly, I implore:Is there —is there balm in Gilead? – tell me – tell me, I implore!"          Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore.""Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil – prophet still, if bird or devil!By that Heaven that bends above us, by that God we both adore,Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn,It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore:Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore."          Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore.""Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!" I shrieked, upstarting:"Get thee back into the tempest and the Night's Plutonian shore!Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!Leave my loneliness unbroken! quit the bust above my door!Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!"          Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sittingOn the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming,And the lamp-light o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor:And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor          Shall be lifted – nevermore.

EULALIE

I dwelt aloneIn a world of moan,And my soul was a stagnant tide,Till the fair and gentle Eulalie became my blushing bride,Till the yellow-haired young Eulalie became my smiling bride.Ah, less – less brightThe stars of the nightThan the eyes of the radiant girl!And never a flakeThat the vapor can makeWith the moon-tints of purple and pearlCan vie with the modest Eulalie's most unregarded curl,Can compare with the bright-eyed Eulalie's most humble and careless curl.Now doubt – now painCome never again,For her soul gives me sigh for sigh;And all day longShines, bright and strong,Astarte within the sky,While ever to her dear Eulalie upturns her matron eye,While ever to her young Eulalie upturns her violet eye.

TO M.L.S —

Of all who hail thy presence as the morning;Of all to whom thine absence is the night,The blotting utterly from out high heavenThe sacred sun; of all who, weeping, bless theeHourly for hope, for life, ah! above all,For the resurrection of deep-buried faithIn truth, in virtue, in humanity;Of all who, on despair's unhallowed bedLying down to die, have suddenly arisenAt thy soft-murmured words, "Let there be light!"At the soft-murmured words that were fulfilledIn the seraphic glancing of thine eyes;Of all who owe thee most, whose gratitudeNearest resembles worship, oh, rememberThe truest, the most fervently devoted,And think that these weak lines are written by him:By him, who, as he pens them, thrills to thinkHis spirit is communing with an angel's.

ULALUME

The skies they were ashen and sober;  The leaves they were crispéd and sere,  The leaves they were withering and sere;It was night in the lonesome October  Of my most immemorial year;It was hard by the dim lake of Auber,  In the misty mid region of Weir:It was down by the dank tarn of Auber,  In the ghoul-haunted woodland of Weir.Here once, through an alley Titanic  Of cypress, I roamed with my Soul —  Of cypress, with Psyche, my Soul.These were days when my heart was volcanic  As the scoriac rivers that roll,  As the lavas that restlessly rollTheir sulphurous currents down Yaanek  In the ultimate climes of the pole,That groan as they roll down Mount Yaanek  In the realms of the boreal pole.Our talk had been serious and sober,  But our thoughts they were palsied and sere,  Our memories were treacherous and sere,For we knew not the month was October,  And we marked not the night of the year,  (Ah, night of all nights in the year!)We noted not the dim lake of Auber  (Though once we had journeyed down here),Remembered not the dank tarn of Auber  Nor the ghoul-haunted woodland of Weir.And now, as the night was senescent 30  And star-dials pointed to morn,  As the star-dials hinted of morn,At the end of our path a liquescent  And nebulous lustre was born,Out of which a miraculous crescent 35  Arose with a duplicate horn,Astarte's bediamonded crescent  Distinct with its duplicate horn.And I said – "She is warmer than Dian:  She rolls through an ether of sighs, 40  She revels in a region of sighs:She has seen that the tears are not dry on  These cheeks, where the worm never dies,And has come past the stars of the Lion  To point us the path to the skies, 45  To the Lethean peace of the skies:Come up, in despite of the Lion,  To shine on us with her bright eyes:Come up through the lair of the Lion,  With love in her luminous eyes." 50But Psyche, uplifting her finger,  Said – "Sadly this star I mistrust:  Her pallor I strangely mistrust:Oh, hasten! – oh, let us not linger!  Oh, fly! – let us fly! – for we must." 55In terror she spoke, letting sink her  Wings until they trailed in the dust;In agony sobbed, letting sink her  Plumes till they trailed in the dust,  Till they sorrowfully trailed in the dust. 60I replied – "This is nothing but dreaming:  Let us on by this tremulous light!  Let us bathe in this crystalline light!Its sibyllic splendor is beaming  With hope and in beauty to-night: 65  See, it flickers up the sky through the night!Ah, we safely may trust to its gleaming,  And be sure it will lead us aright:We safely may trust to a gleaming  That cannot but guide us aright, 70  Since it flickers up to Heaven through the night."Thus I pacified Psyche and kissed her,  And tempted her out of her gloom,  And conquered her scruples and gloom;And we passed to the end of the vista, 75  But were stopped by the door of a tomb,  By the door of a legended tomb;And I said – "What is written, sweet sister,  On the door of this legended tomb?"  She replied – "Ulalume – Ulalume – 80  'T is the vault of thy lost Ulalume!"Then my heart it grew ashen and sober  As the leaves that were crisped and sere,  As the leaves that were withering and sere,And I cried – "It was surely October 85  On this very night of last year  That I journeyed – I journeyed down here,  That I brought a dread burden down here:  On this night of all nights in the year,  Ah, what demon has tempted me here? 90Well I know, now, this dim lake of Auber,  This misty mid region of Weir:Well I know, now, this dank tarn of Auber,  This ghoul-haunted woodland of Weir."