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Edgar Allan Poe
G. R. Thompson
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Oh that my young life were a lasting dream My spirit not awak'ning till the beamOf an Eternity should bring the morrow: Yes tho' that long dream were of hopeless sorrow, 'Twere better than the dull realityOf waking life to him whose heart shall be, And bath been ever, on the chilly earth, A chaos of deep passion from his birth
But should it be-that dream eternallyContinuing-as dreams have been to meIn my young boyhood--should it thus be given, 'Twere folly still to hope for higher Heaven For I have revell'd, when the sun was brightIn the summer sky; in dreamy fields of light, And left unbeedingly my very heart In climes of mine imagining--apart From mine own home, with beings that have been Of mine own thought--wbat 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 Came o'er me in the night and left behind Its image on my spirit, or the moon Shone on my slumbers in her lofty noon Too coldly-or the stars-howe'er it was That dream was as that night wind-let it pass.
Dreams in their vivid colouring of life-As in that fleeting, shadowy, misty strife
Of semblance with reality which brings To the delirious eye more lovely things Of Paradise and Love-and all our own Than young Hope in his sunniest hour hath known.
SPIRITS OF THE DEAD
Thy soul shall find itself alone'Mid dark thoughts of the graytomb-stone--Not one, of all the crowd, to pryInto thine hour of secrecy:
Be silent in that solitude, Which is not loneliness-for thenThe spirits of the dead who stoodIn life before thee are -againIn death around thee-and their will Shall overshadow thee: be still.
The night-tho' clear--shall frownAnd the stars shall look not down, From their high thrones in the heaven, With light like Hope to mortals givenBut their red orbs, without beam, To thy weariness shall seem As a burning and a fever Which would cling to thee for ever.
Now are thoughts thou shalt not banishNow are visions ne'er to vanishFrom thy spirit shall they pass No more-like dew-drop from the grass.
The breeze---the breath of God-is still-And the mist upon the hillShadowy-shadowy-yet unbroken, Is a symbol and a token-How it hangs upon the trees, A mystery of mysteries -- 1827, 1839]
'Twas noontide of summer, And mid-time of night; And stars, in their orbits, Shone pale, thro' the lightOf the brighter, cold moon, 'Mid planets her slaves, Herself in the HeavensHer beam on the waves.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 dearer thy beam shall be; For joy to my heartIs the proud partThou bearest in Heav'n at night, And more I admireThy distant fire, Than that colder, lowly light. 1827]
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