Edgar Allan Poe-Imitation

Edgar Allan Poe


Imitation

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 of 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 worldly rest hath gone
With a sigh as it passed on:
I care not though it perish
With a thought I then did cherish.

Edgar Allan Poe-Hymn to Aristogeiton and Harmodius

Edgar Allan Poe

Hymn to Aristogeiton and Harmodius

Translation from the Greek.

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 Harmodious, 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!

Edgar Allan Poe-Hymn

Edgar Allan Poe

Hymn

       At morn- at noon- at twilight dim-
       Maria! thou hast heard my hymn!
       In joy and woe- in good and ill-
       Mother of God, be with me still!
       When the hours flew brightly by,
       And not a cloud obscured the sky,
       My soul, lest it should truant be,
       Thy grace did guide to thine and thee;
       Now, when storms of Fate o'ercast
       Darkly my Present and my Past,
       Let my Future radiant shine
       With sweet hopes of thee and thine!

Edgar Allan Poe-The Haunted Palace

Edgar Allan Poe

The Haunted Palace

       In the greenest of our valleys
         By good angels tenanted,
       Once a fair and stately palace-
         Radiant palace- reared its head.
       In the monarch Thought's dominion-
         It stood there!
       Never seraph spread a pinion
         Over fabric half so fair!

       Banners yellow, glorious, golden,
         On its roof did float and flow,
       (This- all this- was in the olden
         Time long ago,)
       And every gentle air that dallied,
         In that sweet day,
       Along the ramparts plumed and pallid,
         A winged odor went away.

       Wanderers in that happy valley,
         Through two luminous windows, saw
       Spirits moving musically,
         To a lute's well-tuned law,
       Round about a throne where, sitting
         (Porphyrogene!)
       In state his glory well-befitting,
         The ruler of the realm was seen.

       And all with pearl and ruby glowing
         Was the fair palace door,
       Through which came flowing, flowing, flowing,
         And sparkling evermore,
       A troop of Echoes, whose sweet duty
         Was but to sing,
       In voices of surpassing beauty,
         The wit and wisdom of their king.

       But evil things, in robes of sorrow,
         Assailed the monarch's high estate.
       (Ah, let us mourn!- for never morrow
         Shall dawn upon him desolate!)
       And round about his home the glory
         That blushed and bloomed,
       Is but a dim-remembered story
         Of the old time entombed.

       And travellers, now, within that valley,
         Through the red-litten windows see
       Vast forms, that move fantastically
         To a discordant melody,
       While, like a ghastly rapid river,
         Through the pale door
       A hideous throng rush out forever
         And laugh- but smile no more.

Edgar Allan Poe-"The Happiest Day"

Edgar Allan Poe

"The Happiest Day"

      The happiest day -- the happiest hour
        My sear'd and blighted heart hath known,
      The highest hope of pride and power,
        I feel hath flown.

      Of power! said I? yes! such I ween;
        But they have vanish'd long, alas!
      The visions of my youth have been-
        But let them pass.

      And, pride, what have I now with thee?
        Another brow may even inherit
      The venom thou hast pour'd on me
        Be still, my spirit!

      The happiest day -- the happiest hour
        Mine eyes shall see -- have ever seen,
      The brightest glance of pride and power,
        I feel- have been:

      But were that hope of pride and power
        Now offer'd with the pain
      Even then I felt -- that brightest hour
        I would not live again:

      For on its wing was dark alloy,
        And, as it flutter'd -- fell
      An essence -- powerful to destroy
        A soul that knew it well.

Edgar Allan Poe-Israfel

Edgar Allan Poe

Israfel

       In Heaven a spirit doth dwell
         "Whose heart-strings are a lute";
       None sing so wildly well
       As the angel Israfel,
       And the giddy stars (so legends tell),
       Ceasing their hymns, attend the spell
         Of his voice, all mute.

       Tottering above
         In her highest noon,
         The enamored moon
       Blushes with love,
         While, to listen, the red levin
         (With the rapid Pleiads, even,
         Which were seven,)
         Pauses in Heaven.

       And they say (the starry choir
         And the other listening things)
       That Israfeli's fire
       Is owing to that lyre
         By which he sits and sings-
       The trembling living wire
         Of those unusual strings.

       But the skies that angel trod,
         Where deep thoughts are a duty-
       Where Love's a grown-up God-
         Where the Houri glances are
       Imbued with all the beauty
         Which we worship in a star.

       Therefore thou art not wrong,
         Israfeli, who despisest
       An unimpassioned song;
       To thee the laurels belong,
         Best bard, because the wisest!
       Merrily live, and long!

       The ecstasies above
         With thy burning measures suit-
       Thy grief, thy joy, thy hate, thy love,
         With the fervor of thy lute-
         Well may the stars be mute!

       Yes, Heaven is thine; but this
         Is a world of sweets and sours;
         Our flowers are merely- flowers,
       And the shadow of thy perfect bliss
         Is the sunshine of ours.

       If I could dwell
       Where Israfel
         Hath dwelt, and he where I,
       He might not sing so wildly well
         A mortal melody,
       While a bolder note than this might swell
       From my lyre within the sky.

Edgar Allan Poe-For Annie

Edgar Allan Poe

For Annie

            Thank Heaven! the crisis-
              The danger is past,
            And the lingering illness
              Is over at last-
            And the fever called "Living"
              Is conquered at last.

            Sadly, I know
              I am shorn of my strength,
            And no muscle I move
              As I lie at full length-
            But no matter!-I feel
              I am better at length.

            And I rest so composedly,
              Now, in my bed
            That any beholder
              Might fancy me dead-
            Might start at beholding me,
              Thinking me dead.

            The moaning and groaning,
              The sighing and sobbing,
            Are quieted now,
              With that horrible throbbing
            At heart:- ah, that horrible,
              Horrible throbbing!

            The sickness- the nausea-
              The pitiless pain-
            Have ceased, with the fever
              That maddened my brain-
            With the fever called "Living"
              That burned in my brain.

            And oh! of all tortures
              That torture the worst
            Has abated- the terrible
              Torture of thirst
            For the naphthaline river
              Of Passion accurst:-
            I have drunk of a water
              That quenches all thirst:-

            Of a water that flows,
              With a lullaby sound,
            From a spring but a very few
              Feet under ground-
            From a cavern not very far
              Down under ground.

            And ah! let it never
              Be foolishly said
            That my room it is gloomy
              And narrow my bed;
            For man never slept
              In a different bed-
            And, to sleep, you must slumber
              In just such a bed.

            My tantalized spirit
              Here blandly reposes,
            Forgetting, or never
              Regretting its roses-
            Its old agitations
              Of myrtles and roses:

            For now, while so quietly
              Lying, it fancies
            A holier odor
              About it, of pansies-
            A rosemary odor,
              Commingled with pansies-
            With rue and the beautiful
              Puritan pansies.

            And so it lies happily,
              Bathing in many
            A dream of the truth
              And the beauty of Annie-
            Drowned in a bath
              Of the tresses of Annie.

            She tenderly kissed me,
              She fondly caressed,
            And then I fell gently
              To sleep on her breast-
            Deeply to sleep
              From the heaven of her breast.

            When the light was extinguished,
              She covered me warm,
            And she prayed to the angels
              To keep me from harm-
            To the queen of the angels
              To shield me from harm.

            And I lie so composedly,
              Now, in my bed,
            (Knowing her love)
              That you fancy me dead-
            And I rest so contentedly,
              Now, in my bed,
            (With her love at my breast)
              That you fancy me dead-
            That you shudder to look at me,
              Thinking me dead.

            But my heart it is brighter
              Than all of the many
            Stars in the sky,
              For it sparkles with Annie-
            It glows with the light
              Of the love of my Annie-
            With the thought of the light
              Of the eyes of my Annie.

Edgar Allan Poe-Fairy-Land

Edgar Allan Poe

Fairy-Land

          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 circumference
          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 passion 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 anything-
          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 butterflies
          Of Earth, who seek the skies,
          And so come down again,
          (Never-contented things!)
          Have brought a specimen
          Upon their quivering wings.

Edgar Allan Poe-Evening Star

Edgar Allan Poe

Evening Star

'Twas noontide of summer,
  And mid-time of night;
And stars, in their orbits,
  Shone pale, thro' 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 pass'd, 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.

Edgar Allan Poe-Eulalie

Edgar Allan Poe

Eulalie

                  I dwelt alone
                  In a world of moan,
           And my soul was a stagnant tide,
  Till the fair and gentle Eulalie became my blushing bride-
  Till the yellow-haired young Eulalie became my smiling bride.

                  Ah, less- less bright
                  The stars of the night
           Than the eyes of the radiant girl!
                  That the vapor can make
           With the moon-tints of purple and pearl,
  Can vie with the modest Eulalie's most unregarded curl-
  Can compare with the bright-eyed Eulalie's most humble and careless
         curl.

                  Now Doubt- now Pain
                  Come never again,
           For her soul gives me sigh for sigh,
                  And all day long
                  Shines, bright and strong,
           Astarte within the sky,
  While ever to her dear Eulalie upturns her matron eye-
  While ever to her young Eulalie upturns her violet eye.

Edgar Allan Poe-An Enigma

Edgar Allan Poe

An Enigma

      "Seldom we find," says Solomon Don Dunce,
        "Half an idea in the profoundest sonnet.
      Through all the flimsy things we see at once
        As easily as through a Naples bonnet-
        Trash of all trash!- how can a lady don it?
      Yet heavier far than your Petrarchan stuff-
      Owl-downy nonsense that the faintest puff
        Twirls into trunk-paper the while you con it."
      And, veritably, Sol is right enough.
      The general tuckermanities are arrant
      Bubbles- ephemeral and so transparent-
        But this is, now- you may depend upon it-
      Stable, opaque, immortal- all by dint
      Of the dear names that he concealed within 't.

Edgar Allan Poe-Elizabeth

Edgar Allan Poe

Elizabeth

  Elizabeth, it surely is most fit
  [Logic and common usage so commanding]
  In thy own book that first thy name be writ,
  Zeno and other sages notwithstanding;
  And I have other reasons for so doing
  Besides my innate love of contradiction;
  Each poet - if a poet - in pursuing
  The muses thro' their bowers of Truth or Fiction,
  Has studied very little of his part,
  Read nothing, written less - in short's a fool
  Endued with neither soul, nor sense, nor art,
  Being ignorant of one important rule,
  Employed in even the theses of the school-
  Called - I forget the heathenish Greek name
  [Called anything, its meaning is the same]
  "Always write first things uppermost in the heart."

Edgar Allan Poe-Eldorado

Edgar Allan Poe


Eldorado

                   Gaily bedight,
                   A gallant knight,
               In sunshine and in shadow,
                   Had journeyed long,
                   Singing a song,
               In search of Eldorado.

                   But he grew old-
                   This knight so bold-
               And o'er his heart a shadow
                   Fell as he found
                   No spot of ground
               That looked like Eldorado.

                   And, as his strength
                   Failed him at length,
               He met a pilgrim shadow-
                   "Shadow," said he,
                   "Where can it be-
               This land of Eldorado?"

                   "Over the Mountains
                   Of the Moon,
               Down the Valley of the Shadow,
                   Ride, boldly ride,"
                   The shade replied-
               "If you seek for Eldorado!"

Edgar Allan Poe-A Dream Within a Dream

Edgar Allan Poe

A Dream Within a Dream

          Take this kiss upon the brow!
          And, in parting from you now,
          Thus much let me avow-
          You are not wrong, who deem
          That my days have been a dream;
          Yet if hope has flown away
          In a night, or in a day,
          In a vision, or in none,
          Is it therefore the less gone?
          All that we see or seem
          Is but a dream within a dream.

          I stand amid the roar
          Of a surf-tormented shore,
          And I hold within my hand
          Grains of the golden sand-
          How few! yet how they creep
          Through my fingers to the deep,
          While I weep- while I weep!
          O God! can I not grasp
          Them with a tighter clasp?
          O God! can I not save
          One from the pitiless wave?
          Is all that we see or seem
          But a dream within a dream?

Edgar Allan Poe-Dreams

Edgar Allan Poe

Dreams

    Oh! that my young life were a lasting dream!
    My spirit not awakening, till the beam
    Of an Eternity should bring the morrow.
    Yes! tho' 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 revell'd, when the sun was bright
    I' the summer sky, in dreams of living light
    And loveliness,- have left my very heart
    In climes of my imagining, 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
    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.

    I have been happy, tho' in a dream.
    I have been happy- and I love the theme:
    Dreams! in their vivid coloring 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.

Edgar Allan Poe-Dreamland

Edgar Allan Poe

            By a route obscure and lonely,
            Haunted by ill angels only,
            Where an Eidolon, named NIGHT,
            On a black throne reigns upright,
            I have reached these lands but newly
            From an ultimate dim Thule-
            From a wild clime that lieth, sublime,
               Out of SPACE- out of TIME.

            Bottomless vales and boundless floods,
            And chasms, and caves, and Titan woods,
            With forms that no man can discover
            For the tears that drip all over;
            Mountains toppling evermore
            Into seas without a shore;
            Seas that restlessly aspire,
            Surging, unto skies of fire;
            Lakes that endlessly outspread
            Their lone waters- lone and dead,-
            Their still waters- still and chilly
            With the snows of the lolling lily.

            By the lakes that thus outspread
            Their lone waters, lone and dead,-
            Their sad waters, sad and chilly
            With the snows of the lolling lily,-
            By the mountains- near the river
            Murmuring lowly, murmuring ever,-
            By the grey woods,- by the swamp
            Where the toad and the newt encamp-
            By the dismal tarns and pools
               Where dwell the Ghouls,-
            By each spot the most unholy-
            In each nook most melancholy-
            There the traveller meets aghast
            Sheeted Memories of the Past-
            Shrouded forms that start and sigh
            As they pass the wanderer by-
            White-robed forms of friends long given,
            In agony, to the Earth- and Heaven.

            For the heart whose woes are legion
            'Tis a peaceful, soothing region-
            For the spirit that walks in shadow
            'Tis- oh, 'tis an Eldorado!
            But the traveller, travelling through it,
            May not- dare not openly view it!
            Never its mysteries are exposed
            To the weak human eye unclosed;
            So wills its King, who hath forbid
            The uplifting of the fringed lid;
            And thus the sad Soul that here passes
            Beholds it but through darkened glasses.

            By a route obscure and lonely,
            Haunted by ill angels only,
            Where an Eidolon, named NIGHT,
            On a black throne reigns upright,
            I have wandered home but newly
            From this ultimate dim Thule.

Edgar Allan Poe -The Conqueror Worm

Edgar Allan Poe



The Conqueror Worm

       Lo! 'tis a gala night
         Within the lonesome latter years!
       An angel throng, bewinged, bedight
         In veils, and drowned in tears,
       Sit in a theatre, to see
         A play of hopes and fears,
       While the orchestra breathes fitfully
         The music of the spheres.

       Mimes, in the form of God on high,
         Mutter and mumble low,
       And hither and thither fly-
         Mere puppets they, who come and go
       At bidding of vast formless things
         That shift the scenery to and fro,
       Flapping from out their Condor wings
         Invisible Woe!

       That motley drama- oh, be sure
         It shall not be forgot!
       With its Phantom chased for evermore,
         By a crowd that seize it not,
       Through a circle that ever returneth in
         To the self-same spot,
       And much of Madness, and more of Sin,
         And Horror the soul of the plot.

       But see, amid the mimic rout
         A crawling shape intrude!
       A blood-red thing that writhes from out
         The scenic solitude!
       It writhes!- it writhes!- with mortal pangs
         The mimes become its food,
       And seraphs sob at vermin fangs
         In human gore imbued.

       Out- out are the lights- out all!
         And, over each quivering form,
       The curtain, a funeral pall,
         Comes down with the rush of a storm,
       While the angels, all pallid and wan,
         Uprising, unveiling, affirm
       That the play is the tragedy, "Man,"
         And its hero the Conqueror Worm.

Edgar Allan Poe-The Coliseum

Edgar Allan Poe

The Coliseum

       Type of the antique Rome! Rich reliquary
       Of lofty contemplation left to Time
       By buried centuries of pomp and power!
       At length- at length- after so many days
       Of weary pilgrimage and burning thirst,
       (Thirst for the springs of lore that in thee lie,)
       I kneel, an altered and an humble man,
       Amid thy shadows, and so drink within
       My very soul thy grandeur, gloom, and glory!

       Vastness! and Age! and Memories of Eld!
       Silence! and Desolation! and dim Night!
       I feel ye now- I feel ye in your strength-
       O spells more sure than e'er Judaean king
       Taught in the gardens of Gethsemane!
       O charms more potent than the rapt Chaldee
       Ever drew down from out the quiet stars!

       Here, where a hero fell, a column falls!
       Here, where the mimic eagle glared in gold,
       A midnight vigil holds the swarthy bat!
       Here, where the dames of Rome their gilded hair
       Waved to the wind, now wave the reed and thistle!
       Here, where on golden throne the monarch lolled,
       Glides, spectre-like, unto his marble home,
       Lit by the wan light of the horned moon,
       The swift and silent lizard of the stones!

       But stay! these walls- these ivy-clad arcades-
       These moldering plinths- these sad and blackened shafts-
       These vague entablatures- this crumbling frieze-
       These shattered cornices- this wreck- this ruin-
       These stones- alas! these grey stones- are they all-
       All of the famed, and the colossal left
       By the corrosive Hours to Fate and me?

       "Not all"- the Echoes answer me- "not all!
       Prophetic sounds and loud, arise forever
       From us, and from all Ruin, unto the wise,
       As melody from Memnon to the Sun.
       We rule the hearts of mightiest men- we rule
       With a despotic sway all giant minds.
       We are not impotent- we pallid stones.
       Not all our power is gone- not all our fame-
       Not all the magic of our high renown-
       Not all the wonder that encircles us-
       Not all the mysteries that in us lie-
       Not all the memories that hang upon
       And cling around about us as a garment,
       Clothing us in a robe of more than glory."

Edgar Allan Poe-The City In the Sea

Edgar Allan Poe

The City In the Sea

      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 that 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.

Edgar Allan Poe-The Bridal Ballad

Edgar Allan Poe

The Bridal Ballad

       The ring is on my hand,
         And the wreath is on my brow;
       Satin and jewels grand
       Are all at my command,
         And I am happy now.

       And my lord he loves me well;
         But, when first he breathed his vow,
       I felt my bosom swell-
       For the words rang as a knell,
       And the voice seemed his who fell
       In the battle down the dell,
         And who is happy now.

       But he spoke to re-assure me,
         And he kissed my pallid brow,
       While a reverie came o'er me,
       And to the church-yard bore me,
       And I sighed to him before me,
       Thinking him dead D'Elormie,
       "Oh, I am happy now!"

       And thus the words were spoken,
         And this the plighted vow,
       And, though my faith be broken,
       And, though my heart be broken,
       Here is a ring, as token
         That I am happy now!

       Would God I could awaken!
         For I dream I know not how!
       And my soul is sorely shaken
       Lest an evil step be taken,-
       Lest the dead who is forsaken
         May not be happy now.