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Edgar Allan Poe, 1829

    Dim vales- and shadowy floods-
    And cloudy-looking woods,
    Whose forms we can't discover
    For the tears that drip all over!
    Huge moons there wax and wane-
    Again- again- again-
    Every moment of the night-
    Forever changing places-
    And they put out the star-light
    With the breath from their pale faces.
    About twelve by the moon-dial,
    One more filmy than the rest
    (A kind which, upon trial,
    They have found to be the best)
    Comes down- still down- and down,
    With its centre on the crown
    Of a mountain's eminence,
    While its wide circumference
    In easy drapery falls
    Over hamlets, over halls,
    Wherever they may be-
    O'er the strange woods- o'er the sea-
    Over spirits on the wing-
    Over every drowsy thing-
    And buries them up quite
    In a labyrinth of light-
    And then, how deep!- O, deep!
    Is the passion of their sleep.
    In the morning they arise,
    And their moony covering
    Is soaring in the skies,
    With the tempests as they toss,
    Like- almost anything-
    Or a yellow Albatross.
    They use that moon no more
    For the same end as before-
    Videlicet, a tent-
    Which I think extravagant:
    Its atomies, however,
    Into a shower dissever,
    Of which those butterflies
    Of Earth, who seek the skies,
    And so come down again,
    (Never-contented things!)
    Have brought a specimen
    Upon their quivering wings.

Last modified: February 17 2015 15:21:47.