The Sleeper

Edgar Allan Poe

1809 to 1849

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Sure thou art come o’er far-off seas,
It was the dead who groaned within.
Into the universal valley.
Oh, lady dear, hast thou no fear?
And this all solemn silentness!
The ruin moulders into rest;
Laughingly through the lattice drop—
So fitfully—so fearfully—
Which is enduring, so be deep!
Some sepulchre, remote, alone,
And wave the curtain canopy
Steals drowsily and musically
The rosemary nods upon the grave;
’Neath which thy slumb’ring soul lies hid,
All Beauty sleeps!—and lo! where lies
That, o’er the floor and down the wall,
The bodiless airs, a wizard rout,
For her may some tall vault unfold—
Flit through thy chamber in and out,
The wanton airs, from the tree-top,
Why and what art thou dreaming here?
An opiate vapor, dewy, dim,
Some vault that oft hath flung its black
Like ghosts the shadows rise and fall!
In childhood, many an idle stone—
While the pale sheeted ghosts go by!
Strange, above all, thy length of tress,
Far in the forest, dim and old,
A wonder to these garden trees!
And would not, for the world, awake.
She ne’er shall force an echo more,
Against whose portals she hath thrown,
This window open to the night?
This chamber changed for one more holy,
The lady sleeps! Oh, may her sleep,
A conscious slumber seems to take,
Thrilling to think, poor child of sin!
Heaven have her in its sacred keep!
Looking like Lethe, see! the lake
I stand beneath the mystic moon.
Of her grand family funerals—
My love, she sleeps! Oh, may her sleep,
Exhales from out her golden rim,
Some tomb from out whose sounding door
And wingéd pannels fluttering back,
I pray to God that she may lie
Oh, lady bright! can it be right—
Above the closed and fringéd lid
Triumphant, o’er the crested palls
This bed for one more melancholy,
And softly dripping, drop by drop,
The lily lolls upon the wave;
Wrapping the fog about its breast,
Upon the quiet mountain top,
Forever with unopened eye,
As it is lasting, so be deep!
Irene, with her Destinies!
Strange is thy pallor! strange thy dress!
At midnight, in the month of June,
Soft may the worms about her creep!

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