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

far diviner visions

       Than even the seraph harper, Israfel,

       (Who has "the sweetest voice of all God's creatures,")

       Could hope to utter. And I! my spells are broken.

       The pen falls powerless from my shivering hand.

       With thy dear name as text, though hidden by thee,

       I cannot write—I cannot speak or think—

       Alas, I cannot feel; for 'tis not feeling,

       This standing motionless upon the golden

       Threshold of the wide-open gate of dreams,

       Gazing, entranced, adown the gorgeous vista,

       And thrilling as I see, upon the right,

       Upon the left, and all the way along,

       Amid empurpled vapors, far away

       To where the prospect terminates—thee only!

      The City in the Sea

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      Lo! Death has reared himself a throne

       In a strange city lying alone

       Far down within the dim West,

       Where the good and the bad and the worst and the best

       Have gone to their eternal rest.

       There shrines and palaces and towers

       (Time-eaten towers and tremble not!)

       Resemble nothing that is ours.

       Around, by lifting winds forgot,

       Resignedly beneath the sky

       The melancholy waters lie.

       No rays from the holy Heaven come down

       On the long night-time of that town;

       But light from out the lurid sea

       Streams up the turrets silently—

       Gleams up the pinnacles far and free—

       Up domes—up spires—up kingly halls—

       Up fanes—up Babylon-like walls—

       Up shadowy long-forgotten bowers

       Of sculptured ivy and stone flowers—

       Up many and many a marvellous shrine

       Whose wreathed friezes intertwine

       The viol, the violet, and the vine.

       Resignedly beneath the sky

       The melancholy waters lie.

       So blend the turrets and shadows there

       That all seem pendulous in air,

       While from a proud tower in the town

       Death looks gigantically down.

       There open fanes and gaping graves

       Yawn level with the luminous waves;

       But not the riches there that lie

       In each idol's diamond eye—

       Not the gaily-jewelled dead

       Tempt the waters from their bed;

       For no ripples curl, alas!

       Along that wilderness of glass—

       No swellings tell that winds may be

       Upon some far-off happier sea—

       No heavings hint that winds have been

       On seas less hideously serene.

       But lo, a stir is in the air!

       The wave—there is a movement there!

       As if the towers had thrust aside,

       In slightly sinking, the dull tide—

       As if their tops had feebly given

       A void within the filmy Heaven.

       The waves have now a redder glow—

       The hours are breathing faint and low—

       And when, amid no earthly moans,

       Down, down that town shall settle hence,

       Hell, rising from a thousand thrones,

       Shall do it reverence.

      The Sleeper

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      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 musically

       Into 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 lake

       A conscious slumber seems to take,

       And would not, for the world, awake.

       All Beauty sleeps!—and lo! where lies

       (Her casement open to the skies)

       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, a wizard 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 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 lie

       For ever with unopened eye,

       While the dim 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—