And soon the queenèd moon her love will shed,
Like pearl-mist, on the earth and on the sea,
Where thou shalt cross to view our mystery!
Lo! we have torches here for thee, and urns,
Where incense with a floating odour burns,
And altars piled with various fruits and flowers,
And ears of corn, gather'd at early hours,
And odours fresh from India, with a heap
Of many-colour'd poppies :-Lo! we keep
Our silent watch for thee, sitting before
Thy ready altars, till to our lone shore
Thy chariot wheels
Shall come, while ocean to the burden reels,
And utters to the sky a stifled roar!
O thou, delicious Spring!
Nursed in the lap of thin and subtle showers,
Which fall from clouds that lift their snowy wing
From odorous beds of light-enfolded flowers,
And from enmassed bowers,
That over grassy walks their greenness fling,—
Come, gentle Spring!
Thou lover of young wind,
That cometh from the invisible upper sea
Beneath the sky, which clouds, its white foam, bind, And, settling in the trees deliciously,
Makes young leaves dance with glee,
Even in the teeth of that old, sober hind,
Winter unkind,-
Come to us for thou art
Like the fine love of children, gentle Spring!
Touching the sacred feeling of the heart,
Or like a virgin's pleasant welcoming;
And thou dost ever bring
A tide of gentle but resistless art
Upon the heart.
Red Autumn from the South
Contends with thee; alas! what may he show?
What are his purple-stain'd and rosy mouth
And browned cheeks to thy soft feet of snow,
And timid, pleasant glow,
Giving earth-piercing flowers their primal growth,
And greenest youth?
Gay Summer conquers thee,
And yet he has no beauty such as thine:
What is his ever-streaming fiery sea,
To the pure glory that with thee doth shine?
Thou season most divine!
What may his dull and lifeless minstrelsy
Compare with thee?
Come, sit upon the hills,
And bid the waking streams leap down their side, And green the vales with their slight-sounding rills! And when the stars upon the sky shall glide,
And crescent Dian ride,
I too will breathe of thy delicious thrills,
On grassy hills.
Alas! bright Spring! not long
Shall I enjoy thy pleasant influence :
For thou shalt die the summer heat among,
Sublimed to vapour in his fire intense,
And, gone forever hence,
Exists no more; no more to earth belong,
Except in song.
Worn unto death, perchance, by care and sorrow;
And, fainting thus with an unconscious sigh,
Bid unto this poor body a good-morrow-
Which now sometime I borrow,
And breathe of joyance keener and more high,
Ceasing to sigh!
EDGAR ALLAN POE.*
Born 1809-died 1849.
ONCE, upon a midnight dreary,
While I ponder'd, 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 mutter'd-
"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 wish'd the morrow;
Vainly I had tried to borrow
From my books surcease of sorrow-
Sorrow for the lost Lenore—
For the rare and radiant maiden
Whom the angels name Lenore—
Nameless here for evermore.
And the silken, sad, uncertain
Rustling of each purple curtain
Thrill'd me-fill'd me with fantastic
Terrors never felt before;
So that now, to still the beating
Of my heart, I stood repeating-
""Tis some visitor intreating
Entrance at my chamber door,-
Some late visitor intreating
Entrance at my chamber door,—
This it is, and nothing more."
*See Note 17.
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 open'd wide the door :
Darkness there, and nothing more!
Deep into that darkness peering,
Long I stood there wondering, fearing,
Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal
Ever dared to dream before;
But the silence was unbroken,
And the darkness gave no token,
And the only word there spoken
Was the whispered word-" Lenore!"
This I whisper'd, and an echo
Murmur'd back the word-"Lenore!"-
Merely this, and nothing more.
Then into the chamber turning,
my soul within me burning,
Soon I heard again 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;-
'Tis the wind, and nothing more!"
Open here I flung the shutter,
When, with many a flirt and flutter,
In there stepp'd a stately Raven
Of the saintly days of yore;
Not the least obeisance made he;
Not an instant stopp'd or stay'd he;
But, with mien of lord or lady,
Perch'd above my chamber door-
Perch'd upon a bust of Pallas
Just above my chamber door. Perch'd, and sat,-and nothing more.
Then, this ebony bird beguiling
My sad fancy into smiling,
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 marvel'd this ungainly
Fowl to hear discourse so plainly,
Though its answer little meaning,
Little relevancy bore:
For we can not help agreeing
That no living human being
Ever yet was bless'd with seeing
Bird above his chamber door-
Bird or beast upon the sculptured
Bust above this chamber door-
With such name as "Nevermore."
But the Raven, sitting lonely
On the placid bust, spoke only
That one word, as if his soul in
That one word he did outpour.
Nothing farther then he utter'd,
Not a feather then he flutter'd;
Till I scarcely more than mutter'd—
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