The Complete Poetry. Эдгар Аллан По

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       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.