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Israfel
By Edgar Allan Poe

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          In Heaven a spirit doth dwell
              “Whose heart-strings are a lute;”
          None sing so wildly well
          As the angel Israfel,
          And the giddy stars (so legends tell)
          Ceasing their hymns, attend the spell
              Of his voice, all mute.

          Tottering above
              In her highest noon,
              The enamoured moon
          Blushes with love,
              While, to listen, the red levin
              (With the rapid Pleiads, even,
              Which were seven,)
              Pauses in Heaven.

          And they say (the starry choir
              And the other listening things)
          That Israfeli’s fire
          Is owing to that lyre
              By which he sits and sings —
          The trembling living wire
          Of those unusual strings.

          But the skies that angel trod,
              Where deep thoughts are a duty —
          Where Love’s a grown up God —
              Where the Houri glances are
          Imbued with all the beauty
              Which we worship in a star.

          Therefore, thou art not wrong,
              Israfeli, who despisest
          An unimpassioned song;
          To thee the laurels belong,
              Best bard, because the wisest!
          Merrily live, and long!

          The ecstacies above
              With thy burning measures suit —
          Thy grief, thy joy, thy hate, thy love,
              With the fervour of thy lute —
              Well may the stars be mute!

          Yes, Heaven is thine; but this
              Is a world of sweets and sours;
              Our flowers are merely — flowers,
          And the shadow of thy perfect bliss
              Is the sunshine of ours.

          If I could dwell
          Where Israfel
              Hath dwelt, and he where I,
          He might not sing so wildly well
              A mortal melody,
          While a bolder note than this might swell
              From my lyre within the sky.
 
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