Fairy-Land
Dim vales -- and shadowy floods --
And cloudy-looking woods,
Whose forms we can't discover
For the tears that drip all over:
Huge moons there wax and wane --
Again -- again --again --
Every moment of the night --
Forever changing places--
And they put out the star-light
With the breath from their pale faces.
About twelve by the moon-dial,
One more filmy than the rest
(A kind which upon trial,
They have found to be the best)
Comes down -- still down-- and down
With its centre on the crown
Of a mountain's eminence,
While its wide circumference
In easy drapery falls
Over hamlets, over halls,
Wherever they may be --
O'er the strange woods -- o'er the sea --
Over the spirits on the wing --
Over every drowsy thing --
And buries them up quite
In a labyrinth of light --
And then, how deep! -- O, deep,
Is the passion of their sleep.
In the morning they arise,
And their moony covering
Is soaring in the skies,
With the tempests as they toss,
Like -- almost any thing --
Or a yellow Albatross.
They use that moon no more
For the same end as before,
Videlicet, a tent --
Which I think extravagant:
Its atomies, however,
Into a shower dissever,
Of which those butterflies
Of Earth, who seek the skies,
And so come down again
(Never-contented things!)
Have brought a specimen
Upon their quivering wings.
-Edgar Allan Poe
And cloudy-looking woods,
Whose forms we can't discover
For the tears that drip all over:
Huge moons there wax and wane --
Again -- again --again --
Every moment of the night --
Forever changing places--
And they put out the star-light
With the breath from their pale faces.
About twelve by the moon-dial,
One more filmy than the rest
(A kind which upon trial,
They have found to be the best)
Comes down -- still down-- and down
With its centre on the crown
Of a mountain's eminence,
While its wide circumference
In easy drapery falls
Over hamlets, over halls,
Wherever they may be --
O'er the strange woods -- o'er the sea --
Over the spirits on the wing --
Over every drowsy thing --
And buries them up quite
In a labyrinth of light --
And then, how deep! -- O, deep,
Is the passion of their sleep.
In the morning they arise,
And their moony covering
Is soaring in the skies,
With the tempests as they toss,
Like -- almost any thing --
Or a yellow Albatross.
They use that moon no more
For the same end as before,
Videlicet, a tent --
Which I think extravagant:
Its atomies, however,
Into a shower dissever,
Of which those butterflies
Of Earth, who seek the skies,
And so come down again
(Never-contented things!)
Have brought a specimen
Upon their quivering wings.
-Edgar Allan Poe