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

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      To Frances S. Osgood

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      Thou wouldst be loved?—then let thy heart

       From its present pathway part not;

       Being everything which now thou art,

       Be nothing which thou art not.

       So with the world thy gentle ways,

       Thy grace, thy more than beauty,

       Shall be an endless theme of praise.

       And love a simple duty.

      Eldorado

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      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!"

      Eulalie

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      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!

       And never a flake

       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,

       Astarté within the sky,

       While ever to her dear Eulalie upturns her matron eye—

       While ever to her young Eulalie upturns her violet eye.

      A Dream Within a Dream

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      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?

      To Marie Louise (Shew)

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      Of all who hail thy presence as the morning—

       Of all to whom thine absence is the night—

       The blotting utterly from out high heaven

       The sacred sun—of all who, weeping, bless thee

       Hourly for hope—for life—ah, above all,

       For the resurrection of deep buried faith

       In truth, in virtue, in humanity—

       Of all who, on despair's unhallowed bed

       Lying down to die, have suddenly arisen

       At thy soft-murmured words, "Let there be light!"

       At thy soft-murmured words that were fulfilled

       In thy seraphic glancing of thine eyes—

       Of all who owe thee most, whose gratitude

       Nearest resembles worship,—oh, remember

       The truest, the most fervently devoted,

       And think that these weak lines are written by him—

       By him who, as he pens them, thrills to think

       His spirit is communing with an angel's.

      To Marie Louise

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      Not long ago, the writer of these lines,

       In the mad pride of intellectuality,

       Maintained "the power of words"—denied that ever

       A thought arose within the human brain

       Beyond the utterance of the human tongue:

       And now, as if in mockery of that boast,

       Two words—two foreign soft dissyllables—

       Italian tones, made only to be murmured

       By angels dreaming in the moonlit "dew

       That hangs like chains of pearl on Hermon hill,"—

       Have stirred from out the abysses of his heart,

       Unthought-like thoughts that are the souls of thought,

       Richer, far wilder, far diviner visions

       Than even the seraph harper, Israfel,

       (Who has "the sweetest voice of all God's creatures,")

       Could hope to utter. And I! my spells are broken.

       The pen falls powerless from my shivering hand.

      

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