The Complete Poetry - Эдгар Аллан По

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(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.

      The Conqueror Worm

       Table of Contents

      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 Wo!

       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 the angels 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,

       And the angels, all pallid and wan,

       Uprising, unveiling, affirm

       That the play is the tragedy, "Man,"

       And its hero the Conqueror Worm.

      Silence

       Table of Contents

      There are some qualities—some incorporate things,

       That have a double life, which thus is made

       A type of that twin entity which springs

       From matter and light, evinced in solid and shade.

       There is a twofold Silence—sea and shore— Body and soul. One dwells in lonely places, Newly with grass o'ergrown; some solemn graces, Some human memories and tearful lore, Render him terrorless: his name's "No More." He is the corporate Silence: dread him not! No power hath he of evil in himself; But should some urgent fate (untimely lot!) Bring thee to meet his shadow (nameless elf, That haunteth the lone regions where hath trod No foot of man), commend thyself to God!

      Dreamland

       Table of Contents

      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 weird 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 dews 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 gray 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.

      

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