The Complete Poetry. Эдгар Аллан По

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СКАЧАТЬ my every hope and thought Were incense—then a goodly gift— For they were childish, without sin, Pure as her young example taught; Why did I leave it and adrift, Trust to the fickle star within?

       VII.

      We grew in age and love together,

       Roaming the forest and the wild;

       My breast her shield in wintry weather,

       And when the friendly sunshine smiled

       And she would mark the opening skies,

       I saw no Heaven but in her eyes—

       Even childhood knows the human heart;

       For when, in sunshine and in smiles,

       From all our little cares apart,

       Laughing at her half silly wiles,

       I'd throw me on her throbbing breast,

       And pour my spirit out in tears,

       She'd look up in my wilder'd eye—

       There was no need to speak the rest—

       No need to quiet her kind fears—

       She did not ask the reason why.

      The hallow'd memory of those years

       Comes o'er me in these lonely hours,

       And, with sweet loveliness, appears

       As perfume of strange summer flowers;

       Of flowers which we have known before

       In infancy, which seen, recall

       To mind—not flowers alone—but more,

       Our earthly life, and love—and all.

       VIII.

      Yes! she was worthy of all love!

       Even such as from the accursed time

       My spirit with the tempest strove,

       When on the mountain peak alone,

       Ambition lent it a new tone,

       And bade it first to dream of crime,

       My frenzy to her bosom taught:

       We still were young: no purer thought

       Dwelt in a seraph's breast than thine; For passionate love is still divine: I loved her as an angel might With ray of the all living light Which blazes upon Edis' shrine. It is not surely sin to name, With such as mine—that mystic flame, I had no being but in thee! The world with all its train of bright And happy beauty (for to me All was an undefined delight), The world—its joy—its share of pain Which I felt not—its bodied forms Of varied being, which contain The bodiless spirits of the storms, The sunshine, and the calm—the ideal And fleeting vanities of dreams, Fearfully beautiful! the real Nothings of mid-day waking life— Of an enchanted life, which seems, Now as I look back, the strife Of some ill demon, with a power Which left me in an evil hour, All that I felt, or saw, or thought, Crowding, confused became (With thine unearthly beauty fraught) Thou—and the nothing of a name.

       IX.

      The passionate spirit which hath known,

       And deeply felt the silent tone

       Of its own self supremacy,—

       (I speak thus openly to thee,

       'Twere folly now to veil a thought With which this aching breast is fraught) The soul which feels its innate right— The mystic empire and high power Given by the energetic might Of Genius, at its natal hour; Which knows (believe me at this time, When falsehood were a tenfold crime, There is a power in the high spirit To know the fate it will inherit) The soul, which knows such power, will still Find Pride the ruler of its will.

      Yes! I was proud—and ye who know

       The magic of that meaning word,

       So oft perverted, will bestow

       Your scorn, perhaps, when ye have heard

       That the proud spirit had been broken,

       The proud heart burst in agony

       At one upbraiding word or token

       Of her that heart's idolatry—

       I was ambitious—have ye known

       Its fiery passion?—ye have not—

       A cottager, I mark'd a throne

       Of half the world, as all my own,

       And murmur'd at such lowly lot!

       But it had pass'd me as a dream

       Which, of light step, flies with the dew,

       That kindling thought—did not the beam

       Of Beauty, which did guide it through

       The livelong summer day, oppress

       My mind with double loveliness—

      *****

       X.

      We walk'd together on the crown

       Of a high mountain, which look'd down

       Afar from its proud natural towers

       Of rock and forest, on the hills—

       The dwindled hills, whence amid bowers

       Her own fair hand had rear'd around,

       Gush'd shoutingly a thousand rills,

       Which as it were, in fairy bound

       Embraced two hamlets—those our own—

       Peacefully happy—yet alone—

      *****

      I spoke to her of power and pride—

       But mystically, in such guise,

       That she might deem it nought beside

       The moment's converse; in her eyes

       I read (perhaps too carelessly)

       A mingled feeling with my own;

       The flush on her bright cheek, to me,

       Seem'd to become a queenly throne

       Too well, that I should let it be

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