Day: September 13, 2022

The Valley of Unrest

Far away — far away —
Far away — as far at least
Lies that valley as the day
Down within the golden east —
All things lovely — are not they
Far away — far away? 

It is called the valley Nis.
And a Syriac tale there is
Thereabout which Time hath said
Shall not be interpreted.
Something about Satan’s dart —
Something about angel wings —
Much about a broken heart —
All about unhappy things:
But “the valley Nis” at best
Means “the valley of unrest.” 

Once it smil’d a silent dell
Where the people did not dwell,
Having gone unto the wars —
And the sly, mysterious stars,
With a visage full of meaning,
O’er the unguarded flowers were leaning:
Or the sun ray dripp’d all red
Thro’ the tulips overhead,
Then grew paler as it fell
On the quiet Asphodel. 

Now the unhappy shall confess
Nothing there is motionless:
Helen, like thy human eye
There th’ uneasy violets lie —
There the reedy grass doth wave
Over the old forgotten grave —
One by one from the tree top
There the eternal dews do drop —
There the vague and dreamy trees
Do roll like seas in northern breeze
Around the stormy Hebrides —
There the gorgeous clouds do fly,
Rustling everlastingly,
Through the terror-stricken sky,
Rolling like a waterfall
O’er th’ horizon’s fiery wall —
There the moon doth shine by night
With a most unsteady light —
There the sun doth reel by day
“Over the hills and far away.”

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Edgar Allan Poe

Originally Published in 1831

Spirits of the Dead

Thy soul shall find itself alone,
Mid dark thoughts of the grey tombstone —
Not one, of all the crowd to pry
Into thine hour of secrecy —
Be silent in thy 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. 

The night tho’ clear shall frown —
And the stars shall look not 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 & a fever
Which would cling to thee forever
But twill leave thee, as each star
With the dew-drop flies afar — 

Now are thoughts thou can’st not banish —
Now are visions ne’er to vanish —
No more, like dew-drop from the grass,
From thy spirit shall they pass —
The breeze — the breath of God — is still —
And the mist upon the hill
Shadowy — shadowy, yet unbroken
Is a symbol & a token —
How it hangs upon the trees!
A mystery of mysteries!

---

Edgar Allan Poe

Originally Published in 1827

To My Mother

Because I feel that, in the heavens above,
The angels, whispering to one another,
Can find, among their burning terms of love,
None so devotional as that of ‘mother’ —
Therefore by that sweet name I long have called you —
You, who are more than mother unto me,
And fill my heart of hearts, where Death installed you,
In setting my Virginia’s spirit free.
My mother — my own mother — who died early —
Was but the mother of myself; but you
Are mother to the one I loved so dearly,
And thus are dearer than the mother I knew;
By that infinity with which my wife
Was dearer to my soul than its soul-life.

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Edgar Allan Poe

Originally published in 1849