Spirits Of The Dead

Thy soul shall find itself alone
'Mid dark thoughts of the gray tombstone
Not one, of all the crowd, 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 overshadow thee: be still.
The night tho' clear shall frown
And the stars shall not look down
From their high thrones in the Heaven,
With light like Hope to mortals given
But their red orbs, without beam,
To thy weariness shall seem
As a burning and a fever
Which would cling to thee forever.
Now are thoughts thou shalt not banish
Now are visions ne'er to vanish
From thy spirit shall they pass
No more like dew-drops from the grass.
The breeze the breath of God is still
And the mist upon the hill
Shadowy shadowy yet unbroken,
Is a symbol and a token
How it hangs upon the trees,
A mystery of mysteries!

Edgar Allan Poe

Edgar Allan Poe was an American writer, poet, editor, and literary critic, best known for his poems and short stories, particularly his tales of mystery and the macabre. He is widely regarded as a central figure of Romanticism in the United States and American literature as a whole. His work initiated the modern detective story genre and contributed significantly to the emerging science fiction genre. Poe's most famous works include 'The Raven,' 'The Tell-Tale Heart,' and 'The Fall of the House of Usher.'

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English

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Visit Of The Dead

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 oershadow thee, be still
For the night, tho clear, shall frown:
And the stars shall look not down
From their thrones, in the dark heavn;
With light like Hope to mortals givn,
But their red orbs, without beam,
To thy withering heart shall seem
As a burning, and a ferver
Which would cling to thee forever.
But twill leave thee, as each star
In the morning light afar
Will fly thee, and vanish:
But its thought thou canst not banish.

Edgar Allan Poe

A Paean

I

How shall the burial rite be read?
The solemn song be sung?
The requiem for the loveliest dead,
That ever died so young?


II

Her friends are gazing on her,
And on her gaudy bier,
And weep! oh! to dishonor
Dead beauty with a tear!


III

They loved her for her wealth
And they hated her for her pride
But she grew in feeble health,
And they love her that she died.


IV

They tell me (while they speak
Of her "costly broider'd pall")
That my voice is growing weak
That I should not sing at all


V

Or that my tone should be
Tun'd to such solemn song
So mournfully so mournfully,
That the dead may feel no wrong.


VI

But she is gone a...

Edgar Allan Poe

Imitation

A dark unfathomed tide
Of interminable pride,
A mystery, and a dream,
Should my early life seem;
I say that dream was fraught
With a wild and waking thought
Of beings that have been,
Which my spirit hath not seen,
Had I let them pass me by,
With a dreaming eye!
Let none of earth inherit
That vision of my spirit;
Those thoughts I would control,
As a spell upon his soul:
For that bright hope at last
And that light time have past,
And my worldly rest hath gone
With a sigh as it passed on:
I care not though it perish
With a thought I then did cherish.

Edgar Allan Poe

The City In The Sea

Lo! Death has reared himself a throne
In a strange city lying alone
Far down within the dim West,
Where the good and the bad and the worst and the best
Have gone to their eternal rest.
There shrines and palaces and towers
(Time-eaten towers and tremble not!)
Resemble nothing that is ours.
Around, by lifting winds forgot,
Resignedly beneath the sky
The melancholy waters lie.

No rays from the holy Heaven come down
On the long night-time of that town;
But light from out the lurid sea
Streams up the turrets silently
Gleams up the pinnacles far and free
Up domes up spires up kingly halls
Up fanes up Babylon-like walls
Up shadowy long-forgotten bowers
Of sculptured ivy and stone flowers
Up many and many a marvellous shrine
Whose wreath...

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To One Departed

Seraph! thy memory is to me
Like some enchanted far-off isle
In some tumultuous sea,
Some ocean vexed as it may be
With storms; but where, meanwhile,
Serenest skies continually
Just o'er that one bright island smile.
For 'mid the earnest cares and woes
That crowd around my earthly path,
(Sad path, alas, where grows
Not even one lonely rose!)
My soul at least a solace hath
In dreams of thee; and therein knows
An Eden of bland repose.

Edgar Allan Poe

A Summer Evening Churchyard.

The wind has swept from the wide atmosphere
Each vapour that obscured the sunset's ray;
And pallid Evening twines its beaming hair
In duskier braids around the languid eyes of Day:
Silence and Twilight, unbeloved of men,
Creep hand in hand from yon obscurest glen.

They breathe their spells towards the departing day,
Encompassing the earth, air, stars, and sea;
Light, sound, and motion own the potent sway,
Responding to the charm with its own mystery.
The winds are still, or the dry church-tower grass
Knows not their gentle motions as they pass.

Thou too, aereal Pile! whose pinnacles
Point from one shrine like pyramids of fire,
Obeyest in silence their sweet solemn spells,
Clothing in hues of heaven thy dim and distant spire,
Around whose lessening ...

Percy Bysshe Shelley