The Complete Poetry. Эдгар Аллан По

'Neath the forest tree

       Wins the bird, beguiling,

       To come down and see:

       Like that bird the lover

       Round his fate will hover

       Till the blow is over

       And he sinks — like me.

      To Octavia

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      When wit, and wine, and friends have met

       And laughter crowns the festive hour

       In vain I struggle to forget

       Still does my heart confess thy power

       And fondly turn to thee!

       But Octavia, do not strive to rob

       My heart of all that soothes its pain

       The mournful hope that every throb

       Will make it break for thee!

      The Valley Nis

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      Far away — far away —

       Far away — as far at least

       Lies that valley as the day

       Down within the golden east —

       All things lovely — are not they

       Far away — far away ?

       It is called the valley Nis.

       And a Syriac tale there is

       Thereabout which Time hath said

       Shall not be interpreted.

       Something about Satan's dart —

       Something about angel wings —

       Much about a broken heart —

       All about unhappy things:

       But "the valley Nis" at best

       Means "the valley of unrest."

       Once it smil'd a silent dell

       Where the people did not dwell,

       Having gone unto the wars —

       And the sly, mysterious stars,

       With a visage full of meaning,

       O'er the unguarded flowers were leaning:

       Or the sun ray dripp'd all red

       Thro' the tulips overhead,

       Then grew paler as it fell

       On the quiet Asphodel.

       Now the unhappy shall confess

       Nothing there is motionless:

       Helen, like thy human eye

       There th' uneasy violets lie —

       There the reedy grass doth wave

       Over the old forgotten grave —

       One by one from the tree top

       There the eternal dews do drop —

       There the vague and dreamy trees

       Do roll like seas in northern breeze

       Around the stormy Hebrides —

       There the gorgeous clouds do fly,

       Rustling everlastingly,

       Through the terror-stricken sky,

       Rolling like a waterfall

       O'er th' horizon's fiery wall —

       There the moon doth shine by night

       With a most unsteady light —

       There the sun doth reel by day

       "Over the hills and far away."

       And Helen, like thy human eye,

       Low crouched on Earth, some violets lie,

       And, nearer Heaven, some lilies wave

       All banner-like, above a grave.

       And one by one, from out their tops

       Eternal dews come down in drops,

       Ah, one by one, from off their stems

       Eternal dews come down in gems!

      Visit of the Dead

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      Thy soul shall find itself alone—

       Alone of all on earth—unknown

       The cause—but none are near to pry

       Into thine hour of secrecy.

       Be silent in that solitude,

       Which is not loneliness—for then

       The spirits of the dead, who stood

       In life before thee, are again

       In death around thee, and their will

       Shall then o'ershadow thee—be still:

       For the night, tho' clear, shall frown;

       And the stars shall look not down

       From their thrones, in the dark heaven,

       With light like Hope to mortals given.

       But their red orbs, without beam,

       To thy withering heart shall seem

       As a burning, and a fever

       Which would cling to thee for ever.

       But 'twill leave thee, as each star

       In the morning light afar

       Will fly thee—and vanish:

       —But its thought thou canst not banish. The breath of God will be still; And the mist upon the hill By that summer breeze unbroken Shall charm thee—as a token, And a symbol which shall be Secrecy in thee.

      Prose Poems

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