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| <h1>The Sleeper</h1> |
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| by Edgar Allan Poe<br> |
| (published 1831) |
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| <p> |
| At midnight, in the month of June, |
| I stand beneath the mystic moon. |
| An opiate vapor, dewy, dim, |
| Exhales from out her golden rim, |
| And, softly dripping, drop by drop, |
| Upon the quiet mountain top, |
| Steals drowsily and musically |
| Into the universal valley. |
| The rosemary nods upon the grave; |
| The lily lolls upon the wave; |
| Wrapping the fog about its breast, |
| The ruin molders into rest; |
| Looking like Lethe, see! the lake |
| A conscious slumber seems to take, |
| And would not, for the world, awake. |
| All Beauty sleeps!- and lo! where lies |
| Irene, with her Destinies! |
| |
| O, lady bright! can it be right- |
| This window open to the night? |
| The wanton airs, from the tree-top, |
| Laughingly through the lattice drop- |
| The bodiless airs, a wizard rout, |
| Flit through thy chamber in and out, |
| And wave the curtain canopy |
| So fitfully- so fearfully- |
| Above the closed and fringed lid |
| 'Neath which thy slumb'ring soul lies hid, |
| That, o'er the floor and down the wall, |
| Like ghosts the shadows rise and fall! |
| Oh, lady dear, hast thou no fear? |
| Why and what art thou dreaming here? |
| Sure thou art come O'er far-off seas, |
| A wonder to these garden trees! |
| Strange is thy pallor! strange thy dress, |
| Strange, above all, thy length of tress, |
| And this all solemn silentness! |
| |
| The lady sleeps! Oh, may her sleep, |
| Which is enduring, so be deep! |
| Heaven have her in its sacred keep! |
| This chamber changed for one more holy, |
| This bed for one more melancholy, |
| I pray to God that she may lie |
| For ever with unopened eye, |
| While the pale sheeted ghosts go by! |
| |
| My love, she sleeps! Oh, may her sleep |
| As it is lasting, so be deep! |
| Soft may the worms about her creep! |
| Far in the forest, dim and old, |
| For her may some tall vault unfold- |
| Some vault that oft has flung its black |
| And winged panels fluttering back, |
| Triumphant, o'er the crested palls, |
| Of her grand family funerals- |
| |
| Some sepulchre, remote, alone, |
| Against whose portal she hath thrown, |
| In childhood, many an idle stone- |
| Some tomb from out whose sounding door |
| She ne'er shall force an echo more, |
| Thrilling to think, poor child of sin! |
| It was the dead who groaned within. |
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