The Complete Poetry of Edgar Allan Poe (Illustrated Edition). Эдгар Аллан По

Shone pale, through 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 passed, as a shroud,

       A fleecy cloud,

       And I turned away to thee,

       Proud Evening Star,

       In thy glory afar

       And dearer thy beam shall be;

       For joy to my heart

       Is the proud part

       Thou bearest in Heaven at night,

       And more I admire

       Thy distant fire,

       Than that colder, lowly light.

      Imitation

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      A dark unfathomed tide

       Of interminable pride—

       A mystery, and a dream,

       Should my early life seem;

       I say that dream was fraught

       With a wild and waking thought

       Of beings that have been,

       Which my spirit hath not seen,

       Had I let them pass me by,

       With a dreaming eye!

       Let none of earth inherit

       That vision on my spirit;

       Those thoughts I would control,

       As a spell upon his soul:

       For that bright hope at last

       And that light time have past,

       And my wordly rest hath gone

       With a sigh as it passed on:

       I care not though it perish

       With a thought I then did cherish.

      "The Happiest Day"

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       I

      The happiest day—the happiest hour

       My seared and blighted heart hath known,

       The highest hope of pride and power,

       I feel hath flown.

       II

      Of power! said I? Yes! such I ween

       But they have vanished long, alas!

       The visions of my youth have been—

       But let them pass.

       III

      And pride, what have I now with thee?

       Another brow may ev'n inherit

       The venom thou hast poured on me—

       Be still my spirit!

       IV

      The happiest day—the happiest hour

       Mine eyes shall see—have ever seen

       The brightest glance of pride and power

       I feel have been:

       V

      But were that hope of pride and power

       Now offered with the pain

       Ev'n then I felt—that brightest hour I would not live again:

       VI

      For on its wing was dark alloy

       And as it fluttered—fell

       An essence—powerful to destroy

       A soul that knew it well.

      Hymn (Translation from the Greek)

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      Hymn to Aristogeiton and Harmodius

       I

      Wreathed in myrtle, my sword I'll conceal,

       Like those champions devoted and brave,

       When they plunged in the tyrant their steel,

       And to Athens deliverance gave.

       II

      Beloved heroes! your deathless souls roam

       In the joy breathing isles of the blest;

       Where the mighty of old have their home—

       Where Achilles and Diomed rest.

       III

      In fresh myrtle my blade I'll entwine,

       Like Harmodius, the gallant and good,

       When he made at the tutelar shrine

       A libation of Tyranny's blood.

       IV

      Ye deliverers of Athens from shame!

       Ye avengers of Liberty's wrongs!

       Endless ages shall cherish your fame,

       Embalmed in their echoing songs!

      Dreams

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      Oh! that my young life were a lasting dream!

       My spirit not awakening, till the beam

       Of an Eternity should bring the morrow.

       Yes! though that long dream were of hopeless sorrow,

       'Twere better than the cold reality

       Of waking life, to him whose heart must be,

       And hath been still, upon the lovely earth,

       A chaos of deep passion, from his birth.

       But should it be—that dream eternally

       Continuing—as dreams have been to me

       In my young boyhood—should it thus be given,

       'Twere folly still to hope for higher Heaven.

       For I have revelled when the sun was bright

       I' the summer sky, in dreams of living light

       And loveliness,—have left my very heart

       Inclines of my imaginary apart

       From mine own home, with beings that have been

       Of mine own thought—what more could I have seen?

       'Twas once—and only once—and the wild hour

       From my remembrance shall not pass—some power

       Or spell had bound me—'twas the chilly wind