by Edgar Allan
Poe
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.
These 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-
In 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."
Said we
then, the two then,
"Ah, can it have been
That the woodlandish
ghouls,
The pitiful, the merciful ghouls,
To bar up our way and to
ban it
From the secret that lies in these wolds,
From the thing that
lies hidden in these wolds,
Have drawn up the spectre of a
planet
From the limbo of lunary souls,
This sinfully scintillant
planet
From the Hell of the planetary souls..."
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