The Bells and Other Poems. Edgar Allan Poe

Чтение книги онлайн.

      Oh! that my young life were a lasting dream!

      My spirit not awakening, till the beam

      Of an Eternity should bring the morrow.

      Yes! tho' that long dream were of hopeless sorrow,

      'Twere better than the cold reality

      Of waking life, to him whose heart must be,

      And hath been still, upon the lovely earth,

      A chaos of deep passion, from his birth.

      But should it be – that dream eternally

      Continuing – as dreams have been to me

      In my young boyhood – should it thus be given,

      'Twere folly still to hope for higher Heaven.

      For I have revell'd, when the sun was bright

      I' the summer sky, in dreams of living light

      And loveliness, – have left my very heart

      In climes of my imagining, apart

      From mine own home, with beings that have been

      Of mine own thought – what more could I have seen?

      'Twas once – and only once – and the wild hour

      From my remembrance shall not pass – some power

      Or spell had bound me – 'twas the chilly wind

      Came o'er me in the night, and left behind

      Its image on my spirit – or the moon

      Shone on my slumbers in her lofty noon

      Too coldly – or the stars – howe'er it was

      That dream was as that night-wind – let it pass.

      I have been happy, tho' in a dream.

      I have been happy – and I love the theme:

      Dreams! in their vivid colouring of life,

      As in that fleeting, shadowy, misty strife

      Of semblance with reality, which brings

      To the delirious eye, more lovely things

      Of Paradise and Love – and all our own!

      Than young Hope in his sunniest hour hath known.

      I saw thee once – once only – years ago:

      I must not say how many – but not many.

      It was a July midnight; and from out

      A full-orbed moon, that, like thine own soul, soaring,

      Sought a precipitate pathway up through heaven,

      There fell a silvery-silken veil of light,

      With quietude, and sultriness, and slumber,

      Upon the upturned faces of a thousand

      Roses that grew in an enchanted garden,

      Where no wind dared to stir, unless on tiptoe —

      Fell on the upturn'd faces of these roses

      That gave out, in return for the love-light,

      Their odorous souls in an ecstatic death —

      Fell on the upturn'd faces of these roses

      That smiled and died in this parterre, enchanted

      By thee, and by the poetry of thy presence.

      Clad all in white, upon a violet bank

      I saw thee half-reclining; while the moon

      Fell on the upturn'd faces of the roses,

      And on thine own, upturn'd – alas, in sorrow!

      Was it not Fate, that, on this July midnight —

      Was it not Fate, (whose name is also Sorrow,)

      That bade me pause before that garden-gate,

      To breathe the incense of those slumbering roses?

      No footstep stirred: the hated world all slept,

      Save only thee and me. (Oh, Heaven! – oh, God

      How my heart beats in coupling those two words!)

      Save only thee and me. I paused – I looked —

      And in an instant all things disappeared.

      (Ah, bear in mind this garden was enchanted!)

      The pearly lustre of the moon went out:

      The mossy banks and the meandering paths,

      The happy flowers and the repining trees,

      Were seen no more: the very roses' odours

      Died in the arms of the adoring airs.

      All – all expired save thee – save less than thou:

      Save only the divine light in thine eyes —

      Save but the soul in thine uplifted eyes.

      I saw but them – they were the world to me!

      I saw but them – saw only them for hours,

      Saw only them until the moon went down.

      What wild heart-histories seemed to lie enwritten

      Upon those crystalline, celestial spheres!

      How dark a woe, yet how sublime a hope!

      How silently serene a sea of pride!

      How daring an ambition; yet how deep —

      How fathomless a capacity for love!

      But now, at length, dear Dian sank from sight,

      Into a western couch of thunder-cloud;

      And thou, a ghost, amid the entombing trees

      Didst glide away. Only thine eyes remained;

      They would not go – they never yet have gone;

      Lighting my lonely pathway home that night,

      They have not left me (as my hopes have) since;

      They follow me – they lead me through the years.

      They are my ministers – yet I their slave.

      Their office is to illumine and enkindle —

      My duty, to be saved by their bright light,

      And СКАЧАТЬ