Edgar Allan Poe

How often we forget all time, when lone

Admiring Nature's universal throne;

Her woods--her wilds--her mountains--the intense

Reply of HERS to OUR intelligence!


In youth have I known one with whom the Earth

In secret communing held--as he with it,

In day light, and in beauty from his birth:

Whose fervid, flickering torch was lit

From the sun and stars, whence he had drawn forth

A passionate light--such for his spirit was fit--

And yet that spirit knew not--in the hour

Of its own fervor--what had o'er it power.


Perhaps it may be that my mind is wrought

To a fervor by the moon beam that hangs o'er,

But I will half believe that wild light fraught

With more of sov'reignty than ancient lore

Hath ever told--or is it of a thought

The unembodied essence, and no more

Than with a quickening spell doth o'er us pass

As dew of the night-time, o'er the summer grass?


Doth o'er us pass, when, as th' expanding eye

To the love object--so the tear to the lid

Will start, which lately slept in apathy?

And yet it need not be--(that object) hid

From us in life--but common--which doth lie

Each hour before us--but then only bid

With a strange sound, as of a harp-string broken

T'awake us--'Tis a symbol and a token,


Of what in other worlds shall be--and giv'n

In beauty by our God, to those alone

Who otherwise would fall from life and Heav'n

Drawn by their heart's passion, and that tone,

That high tone of the spirit which hath striv'n

Tho' not with Faith--with godliness--whose throne

With desp'rate energy 't hath beaten down;

Wearing its own deep feeling as a crown.


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