Mary, amid the cares — the woes
Crowding around my earthly path,
(Sad path, alas! where grows
Not ev’n one lonely rose,)
My soul at least a solace hath
In dreams of thee, and therein knows
An Eden of sweet repose.
And thus thy memory is to me
Like some enchanted far-off isle,
In some tumultuous sea —
Some lake beset as lake can be
With storms — but where, meanwhile,
Serenest skies continually
Just o’er that one bright island smile.
Edgar Allan Poe
Originally Published in 1835
Who hath seduced thee to this foul revolt } Milton Par. Lost. Bk. I
From the pure well of Beauty undefiled? } Somebody
So banished from true wisdom to prefer } Cowper’s Task, Book I
Such squalid wit to honourable rhyme?
To write? To scribble? Nonsense and no more? } Shakespeare
I will not write upon this argument } do.Troilus & Cressida
To write is human — not to write divine. } Pope Essay on Man
Edgar Allan Poe
This poem was never published during Poe’s lifetime
The text on the right refers to the source from which the line is derived from
Of all who hail thy presence as the morning —
Of all to whom thy absence is the night —
The blotting utterly from out high heaven
The sacred sun — of all who, weeping, bless thee
Hourly for hope — for life — ah! above all,
For the resurrection of deep-buried faith
In Truth — in Virtue — in Humanity —
Of all who, on Despair’s unhallowed bed
Laying them down to die, have suddenly risen
At thy soft-murmured words, “Let there be light!”
At the soft-murmured words that were fulfilled
In the seraphic glancing of thine eyes —
Of all who owe thee most — whose gratitude
Nearest approaches worship — oh, remember
The truest — the most fervently devoted,
And think that these weak lines are written by him —
By him who, as he pens them, thrills to think
His spirit is communing with an angel’s.
Edgar Allan Poe
Originally Published in 1847
For her these lines are penned, whose luminous eyes,
Bright and expressive as the stars of Leda,
Shall find her own sweet name that, nestling, lies
Upon this page, enwrapped from every reader.
Search narrowly these words, which hold a treasure
Divine — a talisman — an amulet
That must be worn at heart. Search well the measure —
The words — the letters themselves. Do not forget
The smallest point, or you may lose your labor.
And yet there is in this no Gordian knot,
Which one might not undo without a sabre.
If one could merely comprehend the plot
Upon the open page, on which are peering
Such sweet eyes now, there lies, I say perdu,
A musical name, oft uttered in the hearing
Of poets, by poets — for the name is a poet’s, too,
In common sequence set, the letters lying,
Compose a sound delighting all to hear.
Ah, this you’d have no trouble in descrying,
Were you not something, of a dunce, my dear:
And now I leave these riddles to their seer.
Edgar Allan Poe
Origninally Published in 1846
Poe wrote this poem for Frances Sargent Osgood, whose name can be found within the text. If you take the first letter of the first line (F), the second letter of the second line (R), and so on, the letters spell her name. In the original version of the text (as seen above) Poe accidentally misspells Osgood’s middle name as Sargeant.
I saw thee once — once only — years ago:
I must not say how many — but not many.
It was a July midnight; and from out
A full-orbed moon, that, like thine own soul, soaring,
Sought a precipitant pathway up through heaven,
There fell a silvery-silken veil of light,
With quietude, and sultriness, and slumber,
Upon the upturn’d faces of a thousand
Roses that grew in an enchanted garden,
Where no wind dared to stir, unless on tip-toe —
Fell on the upturn’d faces of these roses
That gave out, in return for the love-light,
Their odorous souls in an ecstatic death —
Fell on the upturn’d faces of these roses
That smiled and died in this parterre, enchanted
By thee and by the poetry of thy presence.
Clad all in white, upon a violet bank
I saw thee half reclining; while the moon
Fell on the upturn’d faces of the roses,
And on thine own, upturn’d — alas! in sorrow!
Was it not Fate that, on this July midnight —
Was it not Fate (whose name is also Sorrow)
That bade me pause before that garden-gate
To breathe the incense of those slumbering roses?
No footstep stirred: the hated world all slept,
Save only thee and me. I paused — I looked —
And in an instant all things disappeared.
(Ah, bear in mind this garden was enchanted!)
The pearly lustre of the moon went out:
The mossy banks and the meandering paths,
The happy flowers and the repining trees,
Were seen no more: the very roses’ odors
Died in the arms of the adoring airs.
All — all expired save thee — save less than thou:
Save only the divine light in thine eyes —
Save but the soul in thine uplifted eyes.
I saw but them — they were the world to me.
I saw but them — saw only them for hours —
Saw only them until the moon went down.
What wild heart-histories seemed to lie enwritten
Upon those crystalline, celestial spheres!
How dark a wo! yet how sublime a hope!
How silently serene a sea of pride!
How daring an ambition! yet how deep —
How fathomless a capacity for love!
But now, at length, dear Dian sank from sight,
Into a western couch of thunder-cloud,
And thou, a ghost, amid the entombing trees
Didst glide away. Only thine eyes remained.
They would not go — they never yet have gone.
Lighting my lonely pathway home that night,
They have not left me (as my hopes have) since.
They follow me — they lead me through the years.
They are my ministers — yet I their slave.
Their office is to illumine and enkindle —
My duty to be saved by their bright light
And purified in their electric fire —
And sanctified in their elysian fire.
They fill my soul with Beauty (which is Hope,)
And are far up in Heaven, the stars I kneel to
In the sad, silent watches of my night;
While even in the meridian glare of day
I see them still — two sweetly scintillant
Venuses, unextinguished by the sun!
Edgar Allan Poe
Originally Published in 1848
Eliza! — let thy generous heart
From its present pathway part not!
Being every thing which now thou art,
Be nothing which thou art not.
So with the world thy gentle ways —
Thy unassuming beauty —
And truth shall be a theme of praise
Forever — and love a duty.
E. A. P.
Edgar Allan Poe
Originally Published in 1835
I saw thee on the bridal day;
When a burning blush came o’er thee,
Tho’ Happiness around thee lay,
The world all love before thee.
And, in thine eye, the kindling light
Of young passion free
Was all on earth, my chain’d sight
Of Loveliness might see.
That blush, I ween, was maiden shame:
As such it well may pass:
Tho’ its glow hath rais’d a fiercer flame
In the breast of him, alas!
Who saw thee on that bridal day,
When that deep blush would come o’er thee, —
Tho’ Happiness around thee lay;
The world all Love before thee. —
Edgar Allan Poe
Originally Published in 1827
I would not lord it o’er thy heart,
Alas! I cannot rule my own,
Nor would I rob one loyal thought,
From him who there should reign alone;
We both have found a life-long love;
Wherein our weary souls may rest,
Yet may we not, my gentle friend
Be each to each the second best?
A love which shall be passion-free,
Fondness as pure as it is sweet,
A bond where all the dearest ties
Of brother, friend and cousin meet, —
Such is the union I would frame,
That thus we might be doubly blest,
With Love to rule our hearts supreme
And friendship to be second best.
M.
Edgar Allan Poe
Originally Published in 1845
Sleep on, sleep on, another hour —
I would not break so calm a sleep,
To wake to sunshine and to show’r,
To smile and weep.
Sleep on, sleep on, like sculptured thing,
Majestic, beautiful art thou;
Sure seraph shields thee with his wing
And fans thy brow —
We would not deem thee child of earth,
For, O, angelic, is thy form!
But, that in heav’n thou had’st thy birth,
Where comes no storm
To mar the bright, the perfect flow’r,
But all is beautiful and still —
And golden sands proclaim the hour
Which brings no ill.
Sleep on, sleep on, some fairy dream
Perchance is woven in thy sleep —
But, O, thy spirit, calm, serene,
Must wake to weep.
TAMERLANE.
Edgar Allan Poe
Originally Published in 1833
1
The bowers whereat, in dreams, I see
The wantonest singing birds
Are lips — and all thy melody
Of lip-begotten words —
2
Thine eyes, in Heaven of heart enshrin’d
Then desolately fall,
O! God! on my funereal mind
Like starlight on a pall —
3
Thy heart — thy heart! — I wake and sigh,
And sleep to dream till day
Of truth that gold can never buy —
Of the trifles that it may.
Edgar Allan Poe
Originally Published in 1829
I have sent for thee, holy friar;
But ’twas not with the drunken hope,
Which is but agony of desire
To shun the fate, with which to cope
Is more than crime may dare to dream,
That I have call’d thee at this hour:
Such father is not my theme —
Nor am I mad, to deem that power
Of earth may shrive me of the sin
Unearthly pride hath revell’d in —
I would not call thee fool, old man,
But hope is not a gift of thine;
If I can hope (O God! I can)
It falls from an eternal shrine.
II.
The gay wall of this gaudy tower
Grows dim around me — death is near.
I had not thought, until this hour
When passing from the earth, that ear
Of any, were it not the shade
Of one whom in life I made
All mystery but a simple name,
Might know the secret of a spirit
Bow’d down in sorrow, and in shame. —
Shame said’st thou?
Aye I did inherit
That hated portion, with the fame,
The worldly glory, which has shown
A demon-light around my throne,
Scorching my sear’d heart with a pain
Not Hell shall make me fear again.
III.
I have not always been as now —
The fever’d diadem on my brow
I claim’d and won usurpingly —
Aye — the same heritage hath giv’n
Rome to the Cæsar — this to me;
The heirdom of a kingly mind —
And a proud spirit, which hath striv’n
Triumphantly with human kind.
In mountain air I first drew life;
The mists of the Taglay have shed
Nightly their dews on my young head;
And my brain drank their venom then,
When after day of perilous strife
With chamois, I would seize his den
And slumber, in my pride of power,
The infant monarch of the hour —
For, with the mountain dew by night,
My soul imbib’d unhallow’d feeling;
And I would feel its essence stealing
In dreams upon me — while the light
Flashing from cloud that hover’d o’er,
Would seem to my half closing eye
The pageantry of monarchy!
And the deep thunder’s echoing roar
Came hurriedly upon me, telling
Of war, and tumult, where my voice
My own voice, silly child! was swelling
(O how would my wild heart rejoice
And leap within me at the cry)
The battle-cry of victory!
* * * * *
IV.
The rain came down upon my head
But barely shelter’d — and the wind
Pass’d quickly o’er me — but my mind
Was mad’ning — for ’twas man that shed
Laurels upon me — and the rush,
The torrent of the chilly air
Gurgled in my pleas’d ear the crush
Of empires, with the captive’s prayer,
The hum of suitors, the mix’d tone
Of flatt’ry round a sov’reign’s throne.
The storm had ceas’d — and I awoke —
Its spirit cradled me to sleep,
And as it pass’d me by, there broke
Strange light upon me, tho’ it were
My soul in mystery to steep:
For I was not as I had been;
The child of Nature, without care,
Or thought, save of the passing scene. —
V.
My passions, from that hapless hour,
Usurp’d a tyranny, which men
Have deem’d, since I have reach’d to power
My innate nature — be it so:
But, father, there liv’d one who, then —
Then, in my boyhood, when their fire
Burn’d with a still intenser glow;
(For passion must with youth expire)
Ev’n then, who deem’d this iron heart
In woman’s weakness had a part.
I have no words, alas! to tell
The lovliness of loving well!
Nor would I dare attempt to trace
The breathing beauty of a face,
Which ev’n to my impassion’d mind,
Leaves not its memory behind.
In spring of life have ye ne’er dwelt
Some object of delight upon,
With steadfast eye, till ye have felt
The earth reel — and the vision gone?
And I have held to mem’ry’s eye
One object — and but one — until
Its very form hath pass’d me by,
But left its influence with me still.
VI.
’Tis not to thee that I should name —
Thou can’st not — would’st not dare to think
The magic empire of a flame
Which ev’n upon this perilous brink
Hath fix’d my soul, tho’ unforgiv’n
By what it lost for passion — Heav’n.
I lov’d — and O, how tenderly!
Yes! she was worthy of all love!
Such as in infancy was mine
Tho’ then its passion could not be:
’Twas such as angel minds above
Might envy — her young heart the shrine
On which my ev’ry hope and thought
Were incense — then a goodly gift —
For they were childish, without sin,
Pure as her young examples 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 smil’d
And she would mark the op’ning skies,
I saw no Heav’n, but in her eyes —
Ev’n 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 mem’ry of those years
Comes o’er me in these lonely hours,
And, with sweet lovliness, appears
As perfume of strange summer flow’rs;
Of flow’rs which we have known before
In infancy, which seen, recall
To mind — not flow’rs alone — but more
Our earthly life, and love — and all.
VIII.
Yes! she was worthy of all love!
Ev’n such as from th’ 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 lov’d 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 undefin’d 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
Giv’n by the energetic might
Of Genius, at its natal hour;
Which knows [believe me at this time,
When falsehood were a ten-fold 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
Embrac’d 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 naught 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
A light in the dark wild, alone.
XI.
There — in that hour — a thought came o’er
My mind, it had not known before —
To leave her while we both were young, —
To follow my high fate among
The strife of nations, and redeem
The idle words, which, as a dream
Now sounded to her heedless ear —
I held no doubt — I knew no fear
Of peril in my wild career;
To gain an empire, and throw down
As nuptial dowry — a queen’s crown,
The only feeling which possest,
With her own image, my fond breast —
Who, that had known the secret thought
Of a young peasant’s bosom then,
Had deem’d him, in compassion, aught
But one, whom phantasy had led
Astray from reason — Among men
Ambition is chain’d down — nor fed
[As in the desert, where the grand,
The wild, the beautiful, conspire
With their own breath to fan its fire]
With thoughts such feeling can command;
Uncheck’d by sarcasm, and scorn
Of those, who hardly will conceive
That any should become “great,” born
In their own sphere — will not believe
That they shall stoop in life to one
Whom daily they are wont to see
Familiarly — whom Fortune’s sun
Hath ne’er shone dazzlingly upon
Lowly — and of their own degree —
XII.
I pictur’d to my fancy’s eye
Her silent, deep astonishment,
When, a few fleeting years gone by,
(For short the time my high hope lent
To its most desperate intent,)
She might recall in him, whom Fame
Had gilded with a conquerer’s name,
(With glory — such as might inspire
Perforce, a passing thought of one,
Whom she had deem’d in his own fire
Wither’d and blasted; who had gone
A traitor, violate of the truth
So plighted in his early youth,)
Her own Alexis, who should plight
The love he plighted then — again,
And raise his infancy’s delight,
The bride and queen of Tamerlane —
XIII.
One noon of a bright summer’s day
I pass’d from out the matted bow’r
Where in a deep, still slumber lay
My Ada. In that peaceful hour,
A silent gaze was my farewell.
I had no other solace — then
T’awake her, and a falsehood tell
Of a feign’d journey, were again
To trust the weakness of my heart
To her soft thrilling voice: To part
Thus, haply, while in sleep she dream’d
Of long delight, nor yet had deem’d
Awake, that I had held a thought
Of parting, were with madness fraught;
I knew not woman’s heart, alas!
Tho’ lov’d, and loving — let it pass. —
XIV.
I went from out the matted bow’r,
And hurried madly on my way:
And felt, with ev’ry flying hour,
That bore me from my home, more gay;
There is of earth an agony
Which, ideal, still may be
The worst ill of mortality,
’Tis bliss, in its own reality,
Too real, to his breast who lives
Not within himself but gives
A portion of his willing soul
To God, and to the great whole —
To him, whose loving spirit will dwell
With Nature, in her wild paths; tell
Of her wond’rous ways, and telling bless
Her overpow’ring loveliness!
A more than agony to him
Whose failing sight will grow dim
With its own living gaze upon
That loveliness around: the sun —
The blue sky — the misty light
Of the pale cloud therein, whose hue
Is grace to its heav’nly bed of blue;
Dim! tho’ looking on all bright!
O God! when the thoughts that may not pass
Will burst upon him, and alas!
For the flight on Earth to Fancy giv’n,
There are no words —— unless of Heav’n
XV.
* * * * *
Look ’round thee now on Samarcand,
Is she not queen of earth? her pride
Above all cities? in her hand
Their destinies? with all beside
Of glory, which the world hath known?
Stands she not proudly and alone?
And who her sov’reign? Timur he
Whom th’ astonish’d earth hath seen,
With victory, on victory,
Redoubling age! and more, I ween,
The Zinghis’ yet re-echoing fame.
And now what has he? what! a name.
The sound of revelry by night
Comes o’er me, with the mingled voice
Of many with a breast as light,
As if ’twere not the dying hour
Of one, in whom they did rejoice —
As in a leader, haply — Power
Its venom secretly imparts;
Nothing have I with human hearts.
XVI.
When Fortune mark’d me for her own,
And my proud hopes had reach’d a throne
[It boots me not, good friar, to tell
A tale the world but knows too well,
How by what hidden deeds of might,
I clamber’d to the tottering height,]
I still was young; and well I ween
My spirit what it e’er had been.
My eyes were still on pomp and power,
My wilder’d heart was far away,
In vallies of the wild Taglay,
In mine own Ada’s matted bow’r.
I dwelt not long in Samarcand
Ere, in a peasant’s lowly guise,
I sought my long-abandon’d land,
By sunset did its mountains rise
In dusky grandeur to my eyes:
But as I wander’d on the way
My heart sunk with the sun’s ray.
To him, who still would gaze upon
The glory of the summer sun,
There comes, when that sun will from him part,
A sullen hopelessness of heart.
That soul will hate the ev’ning mist
So often lovely, and will list
To the sound of the coming darkness [known
To those whose spirits hark’n] as one
Who in a dream of night would fly
But cannot from a danger nigh.
What though the moon — the silvery moon
Shine on his path, in her high noon;
Her smile is chilly, and her beam
In that time of dreariness will seem
As the portrait of one after death;
A likeness taken when the breath
Of young life, and the fire o’ the eye
Had lately been but had pass’d by.
’Tis thus when the lovely summer sun
Of our boyhood, his course hath run:
For all we live to know — is known;
And all we seek to keep — hath flown;
With the noon-day beauty, which is all.
Let life, then, as the day-flow’r, fall —
The trancient, passionate day-flow’r,
Withering at the ev’ning hour.
XVII.
I reach’d my home — my home no more —
For all was flown that made it so —
I pass’d from out its mossy door,
In vacant idleness of woe.
There met me on its threshold stone
A mountain hunter, I had known
In childhood but he knew me not.
Something he spoke of the old cot:
It had seen better days, he said;
There rose a fountain once, and there
Full many a fair flow’r rais’d its head:
But she who rear’d them was long dead,
And in such follies had no part,
What was there left me now? despair —
A kingdom for a broken — heart.
Edgar Allan Poe
Originally Published in 1827
Image by Edmund Dulac
Lady! I would that verse of mine
Could fling, all lavishly and free,
Prophetic tones from every line,
Of health, joy, peace, in store for thee.
Thine should be length of happy days,
Enduring joys and fleeting cares,
Virtues that challenge envy’s praise,
By rivals loved, and mourned by heirs.
Thy life’s free course should ever roam
Beyond this bounded earthly clime,
No billow breaking into foam
Upon the rock-girt shore of Time.
The gladness of a gentle heart,
Pure as the wishes breathed in prayer,
Which has in others’ joys a part,
While in its own all others share.
The fullness of a cultured mind,
Stored with the wealth of bard and sage,
Which Error’s glitter cannot blind,
Lustrous in youth, undimmed in age;
The grandeur of a guileless soul,
With wisdom, virtue, feeling fraught,
Gliding serenely to its goal,
Beneath the eternal sky of Thought: —
These should be thine, to guard and shield,
And this the life thy spirit live,
Blest with all bliss that earth can yield,
Bright with all hopes that Heaven can give.
P.
Edgar Allan Poe
Originally Published in 1845
F. S. O. is assumed to be Frances Sargent Osgood, a fellow poet.
