|
|||||||||||||
Fairy-Land By Edgar Allan Poe |
|||||||||||||
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 any thing — 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. | |||||||||||||
|