| By Edgar Allan Poe |
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| At midnight, in the month of June, I stand beneath the mystic moon. An opiate vapour, dewy, dim, Exhales from out her goldenrim, and, softly dripping, drop by drop, upon the quiet mountain top, steals drowsily and musically into the universal valley. The rosemary nods upon the grave; The lily lolls upon the grave, Wrapping the frog about it's breast, the ruin moulders into rest. Looking like Lethe, seel the lake, A conscious slumber seems to take, and would not, for the world, awake. All beauty sleeps-and lo where lies Irene, 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, from a wizards rout, Flit through thy chamber in and out, And wave the curtain canopy So fitfully- so fearfully- Above the closed and fringed 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 are 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 lengh 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 lie Forever with unopen 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 black and winged panels fluttering back, Triumphant, o'er the crested palls, of 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 door She ne'er shall force an echo more. Thrilling to think, poor child of sin! it was the dead who groaned within. |
| Evening Star! |
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| "T was noontide of summer, And mid-time of night; And stars, in their orbits, Shone pale, thro' the light Of the brighter, cold moon, 'Mid planets her slaves, Herself in the Heavens, Her beam on the waves. I gazed awhile On her cold smile; Too cold-too cold for me- There pass'd, as a shroud, A fleecy cloud, And I turn'd away to thee Proud Evening Star In thy glory afar, And dearest thy beam shall be; For joy in my heart is the proud part Thou bearest in heaven at night, And more I admire Thy distant fire, Than that colder, lowly light. |
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| The Sleeper!! |