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AT midnight,
in the month
of June, |
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I stand
beneath the
mystic moon. |
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An opiate
vapor, dewy,
dim, |
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Exhales from
out her
golden rim, |
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And, softly
dripping,
drop by
drop, |
5 |
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Upon the
quiet
mountain-top, |
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Steals
drowsily and
musically |
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Into the
universal
valley. |
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The rosemary
nods upon
the grave; |
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The lily
lolls upon
the wave; |
10 |
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Wrapping the
fog about
its breast, |
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The ruin
moulders
into rest; |
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Looking like
Lethe, see!
the lake |
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A conscious
slumber
seems to
take, |
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And would
not, for the
world,
awake. |
15 |
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All beauty
sleeps!—and
lo! where
lies |
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Irene, with
her
destinies! |
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O lady
bright! can
it be right, |
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This window
open to the
night? |
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The wanton
airs, from
the
tree-top, |
20 |
|
Laughingly
through the
lattice
drop; |
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The bodiless
airs, a
wizard rout, |
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Flit through
thy chamber
in and out, |
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And wave the
curtain
canopy |
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So fitfully,
so
fearfully, |
25 |
|
Above the
closed and
fringëd lid |
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’Neath which
thy
slumb’ring
soul lies
hid, |
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That, o’er
the floor
and down the
wall, |
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Like ghosts
the shadows
rise and
fall. |
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O lady dear,
hast thou no
fear? |
30 |
|
Why and what
art thou
dreaming
here? |
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Sure thou
art come
o’er far-off
seas, |
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A wonder to
these garden
trees! |
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Strange is
thy pallor:
strange thy
dress: |
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Strange,
above all,
thy length
of tress, |
35 |
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And this all
solemn
silentness! |
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The lady
sleeps. Oh,
may her
sleep, |
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Which is
enduring, so
be deep! |
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Heaven have
her in its
sacred keep! |
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This chamber
changed for
one more
holy, |
40 |
|
This bed for
one more
melancholy, |
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I pray to
God that she
may lie |
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Forever with
unopened
eye, |
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While the
pale sheeted
ghosts go
by. |
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My love, she
sleeps. Oh,
may her
sleep, |
45 |
|
As it is
lasting, so
be deep! |
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Soft may the
worms about
her creep! |
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Far in the
forest, dim
and old, |
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For her may
some tall
vault
unfold: |
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Some vault
that oft
hath flung
its black |
50 |
|
And wingëd
panels
fluttering
back, |
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Triumphant,
o’er the
crested
palls |
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Of her grand
family
funerals: |
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Some
sepulchre,
remote,
alone, |
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Against
whose portal
she hath
thrown, |
55 |
|
In
childhood,
many an idle
stone: |
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Some tomb
from out
whose
sounding
door |
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She ne’er
shall force
an echo
more, |
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Thrilling to
think, poor
child of
sin, |
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It was the
dead who
groaned
within! |
60 |
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