Ulalame

The skies they were ashen and sober;

The leaves they were crisped and sere-

The leaves they were withering and sere;

It was night in the lonesome October

Of my most immemorial year;

It was hard by the dim lake of Auber,

In the misty mid region of Weir-

It was down by the dank tarn of Auber,

In the ghoul-haunted woodland of Weir.

Here once, through an alley Titanic,

Of cypress, I roamed with my Soul-

Of cypress, with Psyche, my Soul.

There were days when my heart was volcanic

As the scoriac rivers that roll-

As the lavas that restlessly roll

Their sulphurous currents down Yaanek

In the ultimate climes of the pole-

That groan as they roll down Mount Yaanek

In the realms of the boreal pole.

Our talk had been serious and sober,

But our thoughts they were palsied and sere-

Our memories were treacherous and sere-

For we knew not the month was October,

And we marked not the night of the year-

(Ah, night of all nights in the year!)

We noted not the dim lake of Auber-

(Though once we had journeyed down here),

Remembered not the dank tarn of Auber,

Nor the ghoul-haunted woodland of Weir.

And now, as the night was senescent,

And star-dials pointed to morn-

As the star-dials hinted of morn-

At the end of our path a liquescent

And nebulous lustre was born,

Out of which a miraculous crescent

Arose with a duplicate horn-

Astarte's bediamonded crescent

Distinct with its duplicate horn.

And I said- "She is warmer than Dian:

She rolls through an ether of sighs-

She revels in a region of sighs:

She has seen that the tears are not dry on

These cheeks, where the worm never dies,

And has come past the stars of the Lion,

To point us the path to the skies-

To the Lethean peace of the skies-

Come up, in despite of the Lion,

To shine on us with her bright eyes-

Come up through the lair of the Lion,

With love in her luminous eyes."

But Psyche, uplifting her finger,

Said- "Sadly this star I mistrust-

Her pallor I strangely mistrust:-

Oh, hasten!- oh, let us not linger!

Oh, fly!- let us fly!- for we must."

In terror she spoke, letting sink her

Wings until they trailed in the dust- I

n agony sobbed, letting sink her

Plumes till they trailed in the dust-

Till they sorrowfully trailed in the dust.

I replied- "This is nothing but dreaming:

Let us on by this tremulous light!

Let us bathe in this crystalline light!

Its Sybilic splendor is beaming

With Hope and in Beauty to-night:-

See!- it flickers up the sky through the night!

Ah, we safely may trust to its gleaming,

And be sure it will lead us aright-

We safely may trust to a gleaming

That cannot but guide us aright,

Since it flickers up to Heaven through the night."

Thus I pacified Psyche and kissed her,

And tempted her out of her gloom-

And conquered her scruples and gloom;

And we passed to the end of the vista,

But were stopped by the door of a tomb-

By the door of a legended tomb;

And I said- "What is written, sweet sister,

On the door of this legended tomb?"

She replied- "Ulalume- Ulalume-

 'Tis the vault of thy lost Ulalume!"

Then my heart it grew ashen and sober

As the leaves that were crisped and sere-

As the leaves that were withering and sere-

And I cried- "It was surely October

On this very night of last year

That I journeyed- I journeyed down here-

That I brought a dread burden down here-

On this night of all nights in the year,

Ah, what demon has tempted me here?

Well I know, now, this dim lake of Auber-

This misty mid region of Weir-

Well I know, now, this dank tarn of Auber,

This ghoul-haunted woodland of Weir."

To the River

Fair river! in thy bright, clear flow

Of crystal, wandering water,

Thou art an emblem of the glow

Of beauty- the unhidden heart-

The playful maziness of art

In old Alberto's daughter;

But when within thy wave she looks-

Which glistens then, and trembles-

Why, then, the prettiest of brooks

Her worshipper resembles;

For in his heart, as in thy stream,

Her image deeply lies-

His heart which trembles at the beam

Of her soul-searching eyes.         

To One in Paradise

Thou wast all that to me, love,

For which my soul did pine-

A green isle in the sea, love,

A fountain and a shrine,

 All wreathed with fairy fruits and flowers,

And all the flowers were mine.

Ah, dream too bright to last!

Ah, starry Hope! that didst arise

But to be overcast!

A voice from out the Future cries,

"On! on!"- but o'er the Past

(Dim gulf!) my spirit hovering lies

Mute, motionless, aghast!

For, alas! alas! me

The light of Life is o'er!

"No more- no more- no more-"

(Such language holds the solemn sea

To the sands upon the shore)

Shall bloom the thunder-blasted tree

Or the stricken eagle soar!

And all my days are trances,

And all my nightly dreams

Are where thy grey eye glances,

And where thy footstep gleams-

In what ethereal dances,

By what eternal streams.   

To My Mother

Because I feel that, in the Heavens above,

The angels, whispering to one another,

Can find, among their burning terms of love,

None so devotional as that of "Mother,"

Therefore by that dear name I long have called you-

You who are more than mother unto me,

And fill my heart of hearts, where Death installed you

In setting my Virginia's spirit free.

My mother- my own mother, who died early,

Was but the mother of myself; but you

Are mother to the one I loved so dearly,

And thus are dearer than the mother I knew

By that infinity with which my wife

Was dearer to my soul than its soul-life.