Spirits of the dead
Spirits of the dead - Edgar Allan Poe
Thy soul shall find itself alone
'Mid dark thoughts of the grey tomb-stone ;
Not one, of all the crowd, to pry
Into thine hour of secrecy.
Be silent in that solitude,
Which is not lonliness-for then
The spirits of the dead, who stood
In life before thee, are again
In death around thee, and their will
Shall overshadow thee ; be still.
The night, though clear, shall frown,
And the stars shall not look down
From their high thornes in the Heaven
With light like hope to mortals given,
But their red orbs, without beam,
To thy weariness shall seem
As a burning and a fever
Which would cling to thee for ever.
Now are thoughts thou shalt not banish.
Now are visions ne'er to vanish ;
From thy spirit shall they pass
No more, lika dew-drops from the grass.
The breeze, the breath of God, is still,
And the mist upon the hill
Shadowy, shadowy, yet unbroken,
Is a symbol and a token.
How it hangs upon the trees,
A mystery of mysteries!
O! I care not that my earthly lot
Hath little of Earth in it,
That years of love have been forgot
In the fever of a minute :
I heed not that the desolate
Are happier, sweet, than I,
But that you meddle with my fate
Who am a passer by.
It is not that my founts of bliss
Are gushing-strange ! with tears-
Or that the thrill of a single kiss
Hath palsied many years-
'Tis not that the flowers of twenty springs
Which have wither'd as they rose
Lie dead of my heart-strings
With the weight of an age of snows.
Not that the grass-O ! may it thrive !
On my grave is growing or grown-
But that, while I am dead yet alive
I cannot be, lady, alone.
Thy soul shall find itself alone
'Mid dark thoughts of the grey tomb-stone ;
Not one, of all the crowd, to pry
Into thine hour of secrecy.
Be silent in that solitude,
Which is not lonliness-for then
The spirits of the dead, who stood
In life before thee, are again
In death around thee, and their will
Shall overshadow thee ; be still.
The night, though clear, shall frown,
And the stars shall not look down
From their high thornes in the Heaven
With light like hope to mortals given,
But their red orbs, without beam,
To thy weariness shall seem
As a burning and a fever
Which would cling to thee for ever.
Now are thoughts thou shalt not banish.
Now are visions ne'er to vanish ;
From thy spirit shall they pass
No more, lika dew-drops from the grass.
The breeze, the breath of God, is still,
And the mist upon the hill
Shadowy, shadowy, yet unbroken,
Is a symbol and a token.
How it hangs upon the trees,
A mystery of mysteries!
O! I care not that my earthly lot
Hath little of Earth in it,
That years of love have been forgot
In the fever of a minute :
I heed not that the desolate
Are happier, sweet, than I,
But that you meddle with my fate
Who am a passer by.
It is not that my founts of bliss
Are gushing-strange ! with tears-
Or that the thrill of a single kiss
Hath palsied many years-
'Tis not that the flowers of twenty springs
Which have wither'd as they rose
Lie dead of my heart-strings
With the weight of an age of snows.
Not that the grass-O ! may it thrive !
On my grave is growing or grown-
But that, while I am dead yet alive
I cannot be, lady, alone.
Kommentarer
Trackback
