Selections from Poe. Edgar Allan Poe

      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,

      Astarte within the sky,

      While ever to her dear Eulalie upturns her matron eye,

      While ever to her young Eulalie upturns her violet eye.

      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 the soft-murmured words that were fulfilled

      In the 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.

      The skies they were ashen and sober;

        The leaves they were crispéd and sere,

        The leaves they were withering and sere;

      It was night in the lonesome October

        Of my most immemorial year;

      It was hard by the dim lake of Auber,

        In the misty mid region of Weir:

      It was down by the dank tarn of Auber,

        In the ghoul-haunted woodland of Weir.

      Here once, through an alley Titanic

        Of cypress, I roamed with my Soul —

        Of cypress, with Psyche, my Soul.

      These were days when my heart was volcanic

        As the scoriac rivers that roll,

        As the lavas that restlessly roll

      Their sulphurous currents down Yaanek

        In the ultimate climes of the pole,

      That groan as they roll down Mount Yaanek

        In the realms of the boreal pole.

      Our talk had been serious and sober,

        But our thoughts they were palsied and sere,

        Our memories were treacherous and sere,

      For we knew not the month was October,

        And we marked not the night of the year,

        (Ah, night of all nights in the year!)

      We noted not the dim lake of Auber

        (Though once we had journeyed down here),

      Remembered not the dank tarn of Auber

        Nor the ghoul-haunted woodland of Weir.

      And now, as the night was senescent 30

        And star-dials pointed to morn,

        As the star-dials hinted of morn,

      At the end of our path a liquescent

        And nebulous lustre was born,

      Out of which a miraculous crescent 35

        Arose with a duplicate horn,

      Astarte's bediamonded crescent

        Distinct with its duplicate horn.

      And I said – "She is warmer than Dian:

        She rolls through an ether of sighs, 40

        She revels in a region of sighs:

      She has seen that the tears are not dry on

        These cheeks, where the worm never dies,

      And has come past the stars of the Lion

        To point us the path to the skies, 45

        To the Lethean peace of the skies:

      Come up, in despite of the Lion,

        To shine on us with her bright eyes:

      Come up through the lair of the Lion,

        With love in her luminous eyes." 50

      But Psyche, uplifting her finger,

        Said – "Sadly this star I mistrust:

        Her pallor I strangely mistrust:

      Oh, hasten! – oh, let us not linger!

        Oh, fly! – let us fly! – for we must." 55

      In terror she spoke, letting sink her

        Wings until they trailed in the dust;

      In agony sobbed, letting sink her

        Plumes till they trailed in the dust,

        Till they sorrowfully trailed in the dust. 60

      I replied – "This is nothing but dreaming:

        Let us on by this tremulous light!

        Let us bathe in this crystalline light!

      Its sibyllic splendor is beaming

        With hope and in beauty to-night: 65

        See, it flickers up the sky through the night!

      Ah, we safely may trust to its gleaming,

        And be sure it will lead us aright:

      We safely may trust to a gleaming

        That cannot but guide us aright, 70

        Since it flickers up to Heaven through the night."

      Thus

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