  I Thou wast all 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. II 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! III For, alas! alas! with 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! IV And all my days 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. E. A. Poe. |
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