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At midnight, in the month of June,
I stand beneath the mystic moon.
An opiate vapour, dewy, dim,
Exhales from out her golden rim, | And, softly dripping, drop by drop,
Upon the quiet mountain top,
Steals drowsily and musically
Into the universal valley. | The rosemary nods upon the grave;
The lily lolls upon the the wave;
Wrapping the fog about its breast,
The ruin moulders into rest; | Looking like Lethe, see! the lake
A conscious slumber seems to take,
And would not, for the world awake.
All Beauty sleeps!-and lo! where lies
Irene, with her Destinies! | O, lady bright! can it be right
This window open to the night?
The wanton airs, from the tree-top,
Laughingly through the lattice drop | The bodiless airs, a wizard rout,
Flit through thy chamber in and out,
And wave the curtain canopy
So fitfully - so fearfully | Above the closed and friged lid
'Neath which thy slumb'ring soul lies hid,
That, o'er the floor and down the wall,
Like ghosts the shadows rise and fall! | Oh, lady dear, hast thou no fear?
Why and what art thou dreaming here?
Sure thou art come o'er far-off seas,
A wonder to these garden trees! | Strange is thy pallor! Strange thy dress,
Strange, above all, thy length of tress,
And this all solemn silentness! | The lady sleeps! Oh, may her sleep,
Which is enduring, so be deep!
Heaven have her in its sacred keep!
This chamber changed for one more holy, | | Пока прекращаем прямые включения могильной поэзии, продолжения ждите через недельку | | тема закрыта by Lord_Antichrist (2010-05-17 10:30:05) |
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