Wednesday, August 19, 2009

From the Master of the Macabre

This week I thought we’d take a break from the ghostly tales I’ve been digging up for you lately and present a work from the most morbid of bards, Mr. E.A. Poe. Today, I’ve drawn up a little lovely from his collected work of poems, so pull up a tombstone and gather round for, “The Sleeper”…

At Midnight, in the month of June,
I stand beneath the mystic moon,
An Opiate vapour, 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 moulders 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 they 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 they dress,
Strange, above all, they 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, my 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,
Of her grand family funerals –
Some sepulcher, remote, alone,
Against whose portal she hath thrown,
In childhood, many 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.

We’re so glad you dropped by this week I hope this little poem of Mr. Poe’s has set the mood for a most morose and morbid day! Until next time kiddies and remember to keep a watchful eye on those closest to you, as they say; you only hurt the ones you love…everyone else is just target practice.

Xane and Dane Dravor

Poem taken from: Edgar Allan Poe, Selected Works. Gramercy Books, New York, Copyright 1985 by Random House Value Publishing, Inc.

ISBN 0-517-05358-6