Poems, 1831 by Edgar Allan Poe--Delphi Classics (Illustrated) by Edgar Allan Poe

Author:Edgar Allan Poe [POE, EDGAR ALLAN]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Parts Edition 3 of 21 by Delphi Classics
Publisher: Delphi Classics (Parts Edition)
Published: 2017-08-25T00:00:00+00:00

PART SECOND.

High on a mountain of enamell’d head —

Such as the drowsy shepherd on his bed

Of giant pasturage lying at his ease,

Raising his heavy eyelid, starts and sees

With many a mutter’d “hope to be forgiven”

What time the moon is quadrated in heaven —

Of rosy head that, towering far away

Into the sunlit ether, caught the ray

Of sunken suns at eve, at noon of night,

While the moon danc’d with the fair stranger light —

Uprear’d upon such height arose a pile

Of gorgeous columns on th’ unburthen’d air,

Flashing from Parian marble that twin smile

Far down upon the wave that sparkled there,

And nursled the young mountain in its lair:

Of molten stars their pavement, such as fall

Through the ebon air, besilvering the pall

Of their own dissolution, while they die —

Adorning then the dwellings of the sky:

A dome, by linked light from heaven let down,

Sat gently on these columns as a crown —

A window of one circular diamond, there,

Look’d out above into the purple air,

And rays from God shot down that meteor chain

And hallow’d all the beauty twice again,

Save when, between th’ Empyrean and that ring,

Some eager spirit flapp’d his dusky wing:

But on the pillars Seraph eyes have seen

The dimness of this world: that greyish green

That Nature loves the best for Beauty’s grave

Lurk’d in each cornice, round each architrave —

And ev’ry sculptur’d cherub thereabout

That, from his marble dwelling peered out

Seem’d earthly in the shallow of his niche —

Achaian statues in a world so rich?

Friezes from Tadmor and Persepolis

From Balbec, and thy [[the]] stilly, clear abyss

Too beautiful Gomorrah! O[[!]] the wave

Is now upon thee — but too late to save! —

Sound loves to revel near a summer night:

Witness the murmur of the grey twilight

That stole upon the ear, in Eyraco,

Of many a wild star-gazer long ago —

That stealeth ever on the ear of him

Who, musing, gazeth on the distance dim,

And sees the darkness coming as a cloud —

Is not its form — its voice — most palpable and loud?

But what is this? — it cometh — and it brings

A music with it — ‘tis the rush of wings —

A pause — and then a sweeping, falling strain,

And Nesace is in her halls again:

From the wild energy of wanton haste

Her cheek was flushing, and her lips apart;

And zone that clung around her gentle waist

Had burst beneath the heaving of her heart:

Within the centre of that hall to breathe

She paus’d and panted, Zanthe! all beneath —

The fairy light that kiss’d her golden hair,

And long’d to rest, yet could but sparkle there.

Young flowers were whispering in melody,

To happy flowers that night — and tree to tree;

Fountains were gushing music as they fell

In many a star-lit grove, or moon-lit dell;

Yet silence came upon material things —

Fair flowers, bright waterfalls and angel wings —

And sound alone that from the spirit sprang

Bore burthen to the charm the maiden sang.

“Neath blue-bell or streamer —

Or tufted wild spray

That keeps, from the dreamer,

The moonbeam away* —

Bright beings! that ponder,

With half-closing eyes,

On the stars which your wonder

Hath drawn from the skies,

Till they glance thro’ the shade, and

Come down

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