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When the light was extinguished,
To shield me from harm.
And I lie so composedly,
That you fancy me dead;
And I rest so contentedly,
Now, in my bed,
(With her love at my breast)
But my heart it is brighter
Stars in the sky,
For it sparkles with Annie
It glows with the light
Of the love of my Annie
With the thought of the light
Of the eyes of my Annie.
Edgar Allan Poe.
INTIMATIONS OF IMMORTALITY.
INTIMATIONS OF IMMORTALITY
FROM RECOLLECTIONS OF EARLY CHILDHOOD.
THERE was a time when meadow, grove, and stream,
To me did seem
The glory and the freshness of a dream.
By night or day,
The things which I have seen I now can see no more!
The rainbow comes and goes,
And lovely is the rose;
The moon doth with delight
Look round her when the heavens are bare;
Are beautiful and fair;
The sunshine is a glorious birth;
But yet I know, where'er I go,
That there hath pass'd away a glory from the earth.
Now, while the birds thus sing a joyous song,
As to the tabor's sound,
To me alone there came a thought of grief:
The cataracts blow their trumpets from the steep,-
Land and sea
Give themselves up to jollity,
And with the heart of May
Thou child of joy
Shout round me, let me hear thy shouts, thou happy Shepherd boy!
Ye blessed creatures, I have heard the call
The heavens laugh with you in your jubilee;
My head hath its coronal,
The fulness of your bliss, I feel-I feel it all.
While Earth herself is adorning
This sweet May morning;
And the children are pulling
On every side
In a thousand valleys far and wide
-But there's a tree, of many, one,
Doth the same tale repeat:
Whither is fled the visionary gleam?
Where is it now,
the glory and the dream?
INTIMATIONS OF IMMORTALITY.
Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting;
Not in entire forgetfulness,
But trailing clouds of glory do we come
Heaven lies about us in our infancy!
But he beholds the light, and whence it flows,
The youth, who daily farther from the east
Is on his way attended;
At length the man perceives it die away,
Earth fills her lap with pleasures of her own; Yearnings she hath in her own natural kind, And, even with something of a mother's mind And no unworthy aim,
The homely nurse doth all she can To make her foster-child, her inmate, Man, Forget the glories he hath known And that imperial palace whence he came.
Behold the Child among his newborn blisses,
A wedding or a festival,
A mourning or a funeral;
And this hath now his heart,
To dialogues of business, love, or strife;
Ere this be thrown aside,
And with new joy and pride
The little actor cons another part;
Filling from time to time his 'humorous stage'
Were endless imitation.
Thou, whose exterior semblance doth belie
Thou best philosopher, who yet dost keep
On whom those truths do rest
Which we are toiling all our lives to find;
Broods like the day, a master o'er a slave,