The Complete Poetry. Эдгар Аллан По
Чтение книги онлайн.

Читать онлайн книгу The Complete Poetry - Эдгар Аллан По страница 30

Название: The Complete Poetry

Автор: Эдгар Аллан По

Издательство: Bookwire

Жанр: Языкознание

Серия:

isbn: 4064066382087

isbn:

СКАЧАТЬ Thy Naiad airs have brought me home

       To the glory that was Greece,

       To the grandeur that was Rome.

       Lo! in yon brilliant window niche,

       How statue-like I see thee stand,

       The agate lamp within thy hand!

       Ah, Psyche, from the regions which

       Are Holy Land!

      The Valley of Unrest

       Table of Contents

      Once it smiled a silent dell Where the people did not dwell; They had gone unto the wars, Trusting to the mild-eyed stars, Nightly, from their azure towers, To keep watch above the flowers, In the midst of which all day The red sun-light lazily lay, Now each visitor shall confess The sad valley's restlessness. Nothing there is motionless— Nothing save the airs that brood Over the magic solitude. Ah, by no wind are stirred those trees That palpitate like the chill seas Around the misty Hebrides! Ah, by no wind those clouds are driven That rustle through the unquiet Heaven Unceasingly, from morn till even, Over the violets there that lie In myriad types of the human eye— Over the lilies that wave And weep above a nameless grave! They wave:—from out their fragrant tops Eternal dews come down in drops. They weep:—from off their delicate stems Perennial tears descend in gems.

       Table of Contents

      In Heaven a spirit doth dwell

       "Whose heart-strings are a lute;"

       None sing so wildly well

       As the angel Israfel,

       And the giddy Stars (so legends tell),

       Ceasing their hymns, attend the spell

       Of his voice, all mute.

       Tottering above

       In her highest noon,

       The enamoured Moon

       Blushes with love,

       While, to listen, the red levin

       (With the rapid Pleiads, even,

       Which were seven),

       Pauses in Heaven.

       And they say (the starry choir

       And the other listening things)

       That Israfeli's fire

       Is owing to that lyre

       By which he sits and sings—

       The trembling living wire

       Of those unusual strings.

       But the skies that angel trod,

       Where deep thoughts are a duty—

       Where Love's a grow-up God—

       Where the Houri glances are

       Imbued with all the beauty

       Which we worship in a star.

       Therefore, thou art not wrong,

       Israfeli, who despisest

       An unimpassioned song;

       To thee the laurels belong,

       Best bard, because the wisest!

       Merrily live and long!

       The ecstasies above

       With thy burning measures suit—

       Thy grief, thy joy, thy hate, thy love,

       With the fervor of thy lute—

       Well may the stars be mute!

       Yes, Heaven is thine; but this

       Is a world of sweets and sours;

       Our flowers are merely—flowers,

       And the shadow of thy perfect bliss

       Is the sunshine of ours.

       If I could dwell

       Where Israfel

       Hath dwelt, and he where I,

       He might not sing so wildly well

       A mortal melody,

       While a bolder note than this might swell

       From my lyre within the sky.

      To ——

       Table of Contents

      I heed not that my earthly lot

       Hath—little of Earth in it—

       That years of love have been forgot

       In the hatred of a minute:—

       I mourn not that the desolate

       Are happier, sweet, than I,

       But that you sorrow for my fate Who am a passer-by.

      To ——

       Table of Contents

      The bowers whereat, in dreams, I see

       The wantonest singing birds,

       Are lips—and all thy melody

       Of lip-begotten words—

       Thine eyes, in Heaven of heart enshrined

       Then desolately fall,

       O God! on my funereal mind

СКАЧАТЬ