Proëm

A gleaner in the fields of song, I follow where the great have gone, The wise, the beautiful, the strong, An humble garland weaving. Their harmonies enchant mine ears, Unseal the fontal depths of tears, And lift my spirit to the spheres, Each sense of pain bereaving.

Muse of the West! upon thy shrine I lay this votive wreath of mine, Though many an offering there may shine, With brighter blossoms gleaming. For, even now, though wild and young, By cunning hands thy harp is strung, And lips, with bees in clusters hung, Thy fame are fast redeeming.

But late thy heart was pierced with pain, Still o’er thee flows of raven grain A vestment dun; thine eyelids rain Their tears o’er one departed. The harp of Israfel no more Is heard below—some brighter shore Receives him, and his lost Lenore He clasps, the fiery hearted.

His were the wingéd words, that bear Imaginations rich and rare, As pinions’ seeds through all the air, And sow them in each bosom. Thoughts’ shadows lowered about his eye; His forehead was a temple high, Fit haunt for Dædal Poesy; For flowers divine to blossom.

His spirit stalked in joyless gloom Through autumn wolds, where never bloom Was seen. Above, a sullen moon Through flying rack was beaming; The sighing winds their dirges blew, The withered leaves in eddies flew, Upon his brow the nightshade’s dew In venomed drops was gleaming.

Sad heart, thy fiery throbs are o’er! Thy soul has gained the eternal shore! There mayst thou find the loved of yore, Who went before thee thither! Reknit to them by cords, which ne’er The Parcæ dark again can shear, Mayst thou enjoy ambrosial cheer In regions of unclouded weather!