The Complete Poetical Works of Edgar Allan Poe - Эдгар Аллан По

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so well:

       Ah! if that language from thy heart arise,

       Breathe it less gently forth—and veil thine eyes.

       Endymion, recollect, when Luna tried

       To cure his love—was cured of all beside—

       His folly—pride—and passion—for he died.

      Beloved Physician

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      The pulse beats ten and intermits;

       God nerve the soul that ne'er forgets

       In calm or storm, by night or day,

       Its steady toil, its loyalty.

       . . .

       . . .

       The pulse beats ten and intermits;

       God shield the soul that ne'er forgets.

       . . .

       . . .

       The pulse beats ten and intermits;

       God guide the soul that ne'er forgets.

       . . .

       . . . so tired, so weary,

       The soft head bows, the sweet eyes close,

       The faithful heart yields to repose.

      The Doomed City

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      Lo ! Death hath rear'd himself a throne

       In a strange city, all alone,

       Far down within the dim west —

       And the good, and the bad, and the worst, and the best,

       Have gone to their eternal rest.

       There shrines, and palaces, and towers

       Are — not like any thing of ours —

       O ! no — O! no — ours never loom

       To heaven with that ungodly gloom!

       Time-eaten towers that tremble not!

       Around, by lifting winds forgot,

       Resignedly beneath the sky

       The melancholy waters lie.

       A heaven that God doth not contemn

       With stars is like a diadem —

       We liken our ladies' eyes to them —

       But there ! that everlasting pall!

       It would be mockery to call

       Such dreariness a heaven at all.

       Yet tho' no holy rays come down

       On the long night-time of that town,

       Light from the lurid, deep sea

       Streams up the turrets silently —

       Up thrones — up long-forgotten bowers

       Of sculptur'd ivy and stone flowers —

       Up domes — up spires — up kingly halls —

       Up fanes — up Babylon-like walls —

       Up many a melancholy shrine

       Whose entablatures intertwine

       The mask the — the viol — and the vine.

       There open temples — open graves

       Are on a level with the waves —

       But not the riches there that lie

       In each idol's diamond eye.

       Not the gaily-jewell'd dead

       Tempt the waters from their bed:

       For no ripples curl, alas!

       Along that wilderness of glass —

       No swellings hint that winds may be

       Upon a far-off happier sea:

       So blend the turrets and shadows there

       That all seem pendulous in air,

       While from the high towers of the town

       Death looks gigantically down.

       But lo! a stir is in the air!

       The wave! there is a ripple there!

       As if the towers had thrown aside,

       In slightly sinking, the dull tide —

       As if the turret-tops had given

       A vacuum in the filmy heaven:

       The waves have now a redder glow —

       The very hours are breathing low —

       And when, amid no earthly moans,

       Down, down that town shall settle hence,

       Hell rising from a thousand thrones

       Shall do it reverence,

       And Death to some more happy clime

       Shall give his undivided time.

      Deep in Earth

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      Deep in earth my love is lying

       And I must weep alone.

      The Divine Right of Kings

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      The only king by right divine

       Is Ellen King, and were she mine

       I'd strive for liberty no more,

       But hug the glorious chains I wore.

      Her bosom is an ivory throne,

       Where tyrant virtue reigns alone;

       No subject vice dare interfere,

       To check the power that governs here.

      O! would she deign to rule my fate,

       I'd worship Kings and kingly state,

       And hold this maxim all life long,

       The King — my King — can do no wrong. P.

      Elizabeth

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      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

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