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TO F--

TO F--

Edgar Allan Poe, 1835



    Beloved! amid the earnest woes
    That crowd around my earthly path-
    (Drear 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.


    And thus thy memory is to me
    Like some enchanted far-off isle
    In some tumultuous sea-
    Some ocean throbbing far and free
    With storms- but where meanwhile
    Serenest skies continually
    Just o'er that one bright island smile.


Last modified: February 08 2006 17:36:07.