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

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rhyme is penned, whose luminous eyes,

       Brightly expressive as the twins of Leda,

       Shall find her own sweet name, that, nestling lies

       Upon the page, enwrapped from every reader.

       Search narrowly the lines!—they hold a treasure

       Divine—a talisman—an amulet

       That must be worn at heart. Search well the measure— The words—the syllables! Do not forget The trivialest point, or you may lose your labor! And yet there is in this no Gordian knot Which one might not undo without a sabre, If one could merely comprehend the plot. Enwritten upon the leaf where now are peering Eyes scintillating soul, there lie perdus Three eloquent words oft uttered in the hearing Of poets by poets—as the name is a poet's, too. Its letters, although naturally lying Like the knight Pinto—Mendez Ferdinando— Still form a synonym for Truth—Cease trying! You will not read the riddle, though you do the best you can do.

       (To discover the names in this and the following poem, read the first letter of the first line in connection with the second letter of the second line, the third letter of the third line, the fourth, of the fourth and so on, to the end.)

      An Enigma

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      "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 lie concealed within't.

       (See comment after previous poem.)

      To My Mother

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      Because I feel that, in the Heavens above,

       The angels, whispering to one another,

       Can find, among their burning terms of love,

       None so devotional as that of "Mother,"

       Therefore by that dear name I long have called you—

       You who are more than mother unto me,

       And fill my heart of hearts, where Death installed you,

       In setting my Virginia's spirit free.

       My mother—my own mother, who died early,

       Was but the mother of myself; but you

       Are mother to the one I loved so dearly,

       And thus are dearer than the mother I knew

       By that infinity with which my wife

       Was dearer to my soul than its soul-life.

      For Annie

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      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 drank 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.

      To F——

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      Beloved! amid the earnest woes

       That crowd around my earthly path—

       (Drear path, alas! where grows

       Not even one lonely rose)—

       My soul at least a solace hath

       In dreams of thee, and therein knows

       An Eden of bland repose.

       And thus thy memory is to me

       Like some enchanted far-off isle

       In some tumultuous sea—

       Some ocean throbbing far and free

       With storm—but where meanwhile

       Serenest skies continually

       Just o'er that one bright inland

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