The Complete Poetical Works of Edgar Allan Poe Part 28

Ah! what is not a dream by day To him whose eyes are cast On things around him with a ray Turned back upon the past?

That holy dream--that holy dream, While all the world were chiding, Hath cheered me as a lovely beam, A lonely spirit guiding.

What though that light, thro' storm and night, So trembled from afar-- What could there be more purely bright In Truth's day star?

1837.

ROMANCE.

Romance, who loves to nod and sing, With drowsy head and folded wing, Among the green leaves as they shake Far down within some shadowy lake, To me a painted paroquet Hath been--a most familiar bird-- Taught me my alphabet to say-- To lisp my very earliest word While in the wild wood I did lie, A child--with a most knowing eye.

Of late, eternal Condor years So shake the very Heaven on high With tumult as they thunder by, I have no time for idle cares Though gazing on the unquiet sky.

And when an hour with calmer wings Its down upon my spirit flings-- That little time with lyre and rhyme To while away--forbidden things!

My heart would feel to be a crime Unless it trembled with the strings.

1829.

FAIRYLAND.

Dim vales--and shadowy floods-- And cloudy-looking woods, Whose forms we can't discover For the tears that drip all over Huge moons there wax and wane-- Again--again--again-- Every moment of the night-- Forever changing places-- And they put out the star-light With the breath from their pale faces.

About twelve by the moon-dial One more filmy than the rest (A kind which, upon trial, They have found to be the best) Comes down--still down--and down With its centre on the crown Of a mountain's eminence, While its wide circ.u.mference In easy drapery falls Over hamlets, over halls, Wherever they may be-- O'er the strange woods--o'er the sea-- Over spirits on the wing-- Over every drowsy thing-- And buries them up quite In a labyrinth of light-- And then, how deep!--O, deep!

Is the pa.s.sion of their sleep.

In the morning they arise, And their moony covering Is soaring in the skies, With the tempests as they toss, Like--almost any thing-- Or a yellow Albatross.

They use that moon no more For the same end as before-- Videlicet a tent-- Which I think extravagant: Its atomies, however, Into a shower dissever, Of which those b.u.t.terflies, Of Earth, who seek the skies, And so come down again (Never-contented thing!) Have brought a specimen Upon their quivering wings.

1831

THE LAKE.

In spring of youth it was my lot To haunt of the wide world a spot The which I could not love the less-- So lovely was the loneliness Of a wild lake, with black rock bound, And the tall pines that towered around.

But when the Night had thrown her pall Upon the spot, as upon all, And the mystic wind went by Murmuring in melody-- Then--ah, then, I would awake To the terror of the lone lake.

Yet that terror was not fright, But a tremulous delight-- A feeling not the jewelled mine Could teach or bribe me to define-- Nor Love--although the Love were thine.

Death was in that poisonous wave, And in its gulf a fitting grave For him who thence could solace bring To his lone imagining-- Whose solitary soul could make An Eden of that dim lake.

1827.

EVENING STAR.

'Twas noontide of summer, And midtime of night, And stars, in their orbits, 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 pa.s.sed, 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.

1827.