TO IANTHE IN HEAVEN.
BY E. A. POE.
THOU wast that all to me, love,
For which my soul did pine —
A green isle in the sea, love,
A fountain and a shrine
All wreathed around about with flowers —
And the flowers, they all were mine.
But the dream, it could not last;
And the star of Hope did rise
But to be overcast.
A voice from out the Future cries,
"Onward!" — while o'er the Past,
(Dim gulf!) my spirit hovering lies,
Mute, motionless, aghast!
For, alas! alas! with me,
Ambition, all, 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 hours are trances,
And all my nightly dreams
Are where thy dark eye glances,
And where thy footstep gleams,
In what ethereal dances,
By what eternal streams.