«Al Aaraaf»: Edgar Allan Poe; poema y análisis.
Al Aaraaf (Al Aaraaf) es un poema maldito del escritor norteamericano Edgar Allan Poe (1809-1849), publicado originalmente en la antología de 1829: Al Aaraaf, Tamerlane y otros poemas menores (Al Aaraaf, Tamerlane, and Minor Poems), y luego reeditado en la colección de 1850: Las obras del difunto Edgar Allan Poe (The Works of the Late Edgar Allan Poe).
Al Aaraaf, uno de los grandes poemas de Edgar Allan Poe, fue escrito cuando el poeta tenía apenas quince años. Se trata del poema más largo de E.A. Poe.
Resulta casi inimaginable que alguien sea capaz de componer un poema tan complejo como Al Aaraaf a los quince años, en especial si tomamos en cuenta los cimientos sobre los que se construyó la obra. E.A. Poe se inspiró en el descubrimiento de Tycho Brahe, efectuado en 1572, de una supernova que fue visible en el hemisferio norte durante 17 meses. E.A. Poe identifica esta extraordinaria luminiscencia estelar con Al-A`raaf («Las alturas»), especie de limbo en la cosmogonía islámica donde habitan los tibios de corazón, es decir, aquellos que no han hecho el bien ni el mal en su paso por la Tierra. Se lo encuentra con alguna dificultad en el séptimo capítulo del Corán.
Si lidiamos con un lector poco impresionable, sigamos adelante con la idea central de Al Aaraaf, repito, ejecutada a una edad en la que el desconocimiento de la mitología árabe es proverbial.
Al Aaraaf abre con la orden de Dios a Nesace, un epíteto del Espíritu de la Belleza, de llevar un mensaje a otros mundos. Nesace se dirige al ángel Ligeia y le ordena que despierte a cien serafines para concretar la directiva divina. Sin embargo, dos almas se rehusan a la convocatoria, la Doncella Angélica (Maiden-Angel) y su amante, Angelo, quien describe su muerte en la Tierra y el vuelo de su espíritu hacia los salones siderales de Al Aaraaf.
Para muchos eruditos, Al Aaraaf es un poema ininteligible, y en parte lo es. Estructuralmente, no posee rimas formales, sino una suerte de fluctuación armónica. Tanto su extensión como la oscuridad de sus versos marcaron la tendencia posterior de E.A. Poe por los poemas breves. No obstante, Al Aaraaf posee algunas cualidades que luego encontraremos en casi toda la obra de Edgar Allan Poe: la vida después de la muerte, el amor ideal, la belleza femenina, la pasión y la melancolía de los amantes abandonados.
Al Aaraaf.
Al Aaraaf, Edgar Allan Poe (1809-1849)
¡Oh, nada terrenal!, solamente el rayo difundido
por la mirada de la belleza y retornado por las flores,
como en aquellos jardines donde el día
surge de las gemas de Circasia.
¡Oh, nada terrenal!, solamente la emoción
melódica que brota del arroyuelo en el bosque
(música de los apasionados),
o el júbilo de la voz exhalada tan apacible,
que como el murmullo en la caracola
su eco perdura y habrá de perdurar…
¡oh, nada de nuestra escoria!,
sino la belleza toda, las flores que orlan
nuestro amor y que nuestros cenadores engalanan,
se muestran en tu mundo tan lejano, tan distante,
¡oh, estrella errante!
Para Nesace todo era dulzura porque allí yacía
su esfera reclinada en el dorado aire,
cerca de cuatro brillantes soles: un temporal descanso,
un oasis en el desierto de los bienaventurados.
En la distancia, entre océanos de rayos que restituyen
el empíreo esplendor al espíritu desencadenado,
a un alma que difícilmente (los oleajes son tan densos)
puede luchar contra su predestinada grandeza.
Lejos, muy lejos viajó Nesace, en ocasiones, hacia distantes esferas,
ella, la favorecida de Dios, y viajera reciente a la nuestra.
Pero ahora, de un mundo anclado soberana,
se despoja del cetro, abandona el supremo mando
y entre incienso y sublimes himnos espirituales,
baña en la cuádruple luz sus angelicales alas.
Ahora más feliz, más bella allá en la hermosa Tierra,
donde vio la luz la “idea de la belleza”
(cayendo en guirnaldas sobre más de una sorprendida estrella,
como cabellera femenina entre perlas, hasta que a lo lejos
encendióse en las colinas aqueas, y ahí moró),
miró Nesace hacia el infinito y se arrodilló;
espléndidas nubes como doseles en torno a ella se rizaban,
apropiados emblemas de la evocación de su mundo,
visto solo en la belleza, y que no perturba la contemplación
de otra rutilante hermosura entre la luz.
Una guirnalda entreteje cada constelación,
y confina en sus colores el opalino aire.
Se postró con urgencia Nesace en su lecho florido,
un lecho de lirios como los que se erguían
en el bello cabo Deucato y que anhelantes,
brotaron acá y allá dispuestos a suspenderse
bajo las etéreas pisadas, profundo orgullo,
de ella que amó a un mortal, y así murió.
Facelia, brotando junto a las delicadas abejas,
su tallo púrpura levanta en torno a sus rodillas;
y la resplandeciente flor, mal llamada de Trebizonda,
de las eminentes estrellas huésped, donde antaño avergonzó
a todas las bellezas; su enmelado rocío
(fabuloso néctar conocido por los paganos),
delirantemente dulce, gota a gota vertido desde el Cielo,
cayó en los jardines de los imperdonables,
en Trebizonda, y sobre una flor bañada por el sol,
tan parecida a la suya,
que aún conserva el néctar, y a la abeja
tortura con exaltación y raro ensueño;
en el Cielo y en sus contornos,
la hoja y la floración de la encantadora planta, penando
con desconsuelo persiste; oh tristeza que le hace inclinar su cabeza
arrepintiéndose de desatinos idos ha mucho tiempo,
e irguiendo en el fragante aire su blanco pecho,
como una belleza culpable, purificada y más bella;
Nictanta, tan sagrada como la luz,
teme perfumar perfumando la noche,
y Clitia, meditabunda entre más de un sol,
mientras que lágrimas quisquillosas por sus pétalos se deslizan.
Y aquella ambiciosa flor que brotó sobre la Tierra,
y murió antes de que penosamente se reanimara en su nacimiento,
estallando en espíritu su fragante corazón, y rauda
viajó al Cielo desde el jardín de un rey.
El loto Valisneria, que hacia allá escapó,
luego de su lucha con las aguas del Ródano.
¡Y tu más encantador perfume púrpura, oh Zante!
¡Isola d’oro!, ¡Fior di Levante!
Y el botón de Nelumbo que por siempre flota
con el Cupido de la India allá en el río sagrado;
¡bellas y encantadoras flores!, que a tu custodia se confía
transponer el canto de la Diosa en aras de fragancias al Cielo:
“¡Espíritu que habitáis
en el profundo cielo,
donde lo terrible y lo perfecto
en belleza rivalizan!
Más allá de la línea del azul,
el límite del astro
que se desvía al ver
vuestra barrera y vuestra valla;
esa barrera trascendida
por los expulsados cometas
de su trono y de su orgullo,
para ser esclavos hasta el fin
y portadores del fuego
(el fuego rojo de su corazón)
con velocidad incansable,
y dolor incesante;
oh vos que habitáis, eso lo sabemos,
en la eternidad, y lo sentimos;
pero la sombra en vuestra frente,
¿qué espíritu la revelará?
Aunque los seres a quienes vuestra Nesace,
vuestra mensajera conoce,
han soñado para vuestra infinidad
como su modelo propio.
¡Vuestra voluntad se ha cumplido, oh Dios!
Por las alturas ha surcado la estrella
entre numerosas tempestades, pero siempre viajó
delante de vuestra ardiente mirada.
Y aquí, con el pensamiento hacia vos dirigido,
pensamiento que solo asciende
a vuestra majestad,
y es partícipe de vuestro trono,
la fantasía alada
os entrega mi mensaje,
hasta que lo secreto sea conocimiento
en las cercanías del Cielo”.
Concluyó su canto, y hundió sus ardorosas mejillas,
avergonzada, entre el lecho de lirios,
buscando refugio ante el fervor de su mirada,
porque los astros tiemblan en presencia de la deidad.
No se perturbó, ni respiró, porque ahí mismo había una voz,
¡cuán solemne impregnaba el apacible aire!,
sonido del silencio en los sobresaltados oídos
al que los soñadores poetas llaman “música de las esferas”.
Un mundo de palabras es nuestro mundo, y a la quietud
llamamos “silencio”, que es la más simple de todas las palabras.
Habla toda la naturaleza, y hasta de las cosas ideales
se desprenden intangibles sonidos por la agitación de visionarias alas.
Pero no así, cuando en los dominios de las alturas
escúchase la eterna voz de Dios,
¡y los rojos vientos decaen en el Cielo!
“Aun cuando en los mundos rigen invisibles ciclos
sujetos a un pequeño sistema y a un sol,
son mundos en los que todo mi amor es insensatez, y todavía concibe
la muchedumbre mis terrores, por la ira de la nube del trueno,
de la tormenta, del terremoto y del océano furioso
(¿se cruzarán conmigo en mi senda iracunda?).
Aun cuando en los mundos poseedores de un solo sol
se atenúan las arenas del tiempo conforme se escapan,
siempre vuestro es mi resplandor, así consagrado
para preservar a través del Cielo mis secretos.
¡Abandonad vuestro cristalino hogar,
y con vuestro séquito por el lunado cielo volad,
pero debéis disperaros como luciérnagas en la noche siciliana,
y que os lleven vuestras alas a otros mundos, con otra luz!
¡Divulgad los secretos de vuestra misión
a los orgullosos orbes titilantes,
y que sean para cada ocasión, barrera y proclama!
¡Qué no se tambaleen las estrellas por la culpa del hombre!”.
En la ambarina noche irguióse la doncella,
¡el ocaso de una sola luna! (en la Tierra comprometemos
a un amor nuestra fe, y adoramos a una luna),
nada más tenía el sitio donde nació la flamante belleza.
Y cuando emergió el astro de ámbar de las aterciopeladas horas,
se levantó la doncella de su florido santuario,
y por la brillante montaña y la mortecina planicie inició
su camino, mas no abandonó todavía su reino de Terasia.
En lo alto de una montaña de cumbre esmaltada,
(el soñoliento pastor en su lecho
de enorme pasto, tranquilo reposa,
levanta sus pesados párpados, se sobresalta y verifica,
murmurando repetidas expresiones de que “espera ser perdonado”,
y a qué hora alcanza la luna su culminación en el cielo),
de rosada cúspide que imponente se destaca a lo lejos,
adentrándose en el éter iluminado por el sol, y captura los rayos
de los soles ocultados al atardecer (a medianoche,
mientras que la luna danzaba con bella y foránea luz),
se erigió un conjunto allí, en esas alturas,
de magníficas columnas en el tenue aire,
fulgurando desde los mármoles de Paros esa simétrica sonrisa
sobre las lejanas olas que allí relumbran,
y que protegen a la formidable montaña en su fundamento.
Pavimentada de estrellas fundidas, como si hubiesen caído
a través del aire de ébano, plateando el manto mortuorio
de su propia disolución, mientras que van muriendo,
las celestes moradas adornan.
Descendida una cúpula desde el Cielo unida por la luz,
delicadamente se posó como una corona sobre las columnas;
una ventana hecha de circular diamante
ahí mira hacia el exterior, hacia el aire purpúreo,
y los rayos de Dios matizaron aquella cadena de meteoros,
y de nuevo consagraron toda la belleza,
salvo cuando entre el Empíreo y aquel anillo,
sus negras alas batió un ávido espíritu.
Pero en los pilares los ojos de los serafines vieron
de este mundo la oscuridad: ese verde grisáceo,
preferido color de la naturaleza para la tumba de la belleza,
oculto en cada cornisa y alrededor de cada arquitrabe…
y los esculpidos querubines que por ahí se hallan,
que atisban desde sus moradas marmóreas,
terrenales parecían en la sombra de sus nichos.
¿Estatuas aqueas en un mundo tan precioso?
¡Frisos de Tadmor y Persépolis,
de Baalbek, y el claro y silencioso abismo
de la bella Gomorra! ¡Ah, sobre ti está ahora la ola,
pero ya es demasiado tarde para rescatarte!
Ama el sonido deleitarse en la noche estival:
testigo del gris crepúsculo es el murmullo
que sigiloso, llegó a los oídos, en Eiraco,
de los visionarios observadores de astros mucho tiempo ha.
Llega siempre furtivo a los oídos de aquel,
que contemplativo, su mirada fija en la umbrosa distancia,
y ve aproximarse como una nube la oscuridad…
¿No es su forma, su voz, más sonora y palpable?
Pero, ¿qué es esto? Viene y trae
consigo música: hay un agitar de alas,
una pausa, y luego del espacio surca descendente una cadencia,
y Nesace está de nuevo en sus salones.
Por la desbordante energía de su jovial urgencia,
encendidas están sus mejillas, entreabiertos sus labios,
y el cinto que ciñe su graciosa cintura
por el palpitar de su corazón se ha reventado
En el centro del salón aquel, y para respirar,
se detiene Zante. ¡Y todo bajo el fulgor
de la bella luz que besa su dorada cabellera;
ansiaba ella el descanso, mas solo resplandecer podía!
Delicadas flores susurraban melodías
a algunas flores aquella noche, a los árboles, de uno a otro,
y fuentes de las que brotaba música mientras que se derramaban
entre arboledas a la luz de las estrellas, y en los valles a la luz de la luna.
Pero acalló el silencio las cosas materiales
(bellas flores iridiscentes, cascadas y alas de ángeles)
y solamente el sonido surgido del espíritu,
fue la vibración del encanto que entonó la doncella:
“Debajo de las campanillas, de los arcos
de la aurora, del florido ramaje, o de las cimas de flores,
protégese el soñador
de los rayos lunares.
Seres luminosos, que meditáis
con entornados ojos
en las estrellas atraídas
por vuestra fantasía de los Cielos,
brillando ellas a través de las sombras
y que descienden en vuestras frentes,
como los ojos de la doncella
que ahora os llama;
levantáos y abandonad vuestro soñar
en violáceos cenadores;
id a vuestras tareas, pues el deber os llama
en estas horas plenas de estelares luces,
y sacudid vuestras cabelleras
por el rocío abrumadas,
y por el aliento de esos besos,
que también las agobian
(¿cómo podrían, amor, sin ti
ser benditos los ángeles?),
¡besos aquellos de amor sincero
que os han arrullado hasta el reposo!
¡Arriba! Sacudid de vuestras alas
todo estorbo;
el nocturno rocío
lastre sería para vuestro vuelo,
y también las caricias del amor sincero,
esas, dejadlas aparte,
son leves en los cabellos
pero plomo en el corazón.
¡Ligeia! ¡Ligeia!,
bella mía,
tu idea más desagradable
se transforma en melodía.
¿Es tu voluntad
oscilarte armónicamente en las brisas,
o inmóvil por capricho,
como el solitario albatros,
apoyada en la noche
(como él en el aire)
para vigilar con deleite
la armonía de este lugar?
¡Ligeia! Dondequiera
que se halle tu imagen,
no hay magia que separe
tu música de ti.
Has atraído infinidad de ojos
en un dormir de sueños,
pero emergen aún las armónicas cadencias
que tu vigilia tutela.
El sonido de la lluvia
que salta en las flores,
y baila nuevamente
al ritmo del chubasco,
el murmullo que brota
del crecer de la hierba,
música de las cosas son,
pero arquetipos son al fin.
Ve, pues, mi amadísima,
date prisa y llega
a los más diáfanos manantiales
bajo los rayos lunares;
al sonriente lago solitario
en su sueño de sumergido reposo;
a las estelares islas
de enjoyados pechos;
donde las silvestres flores, trepando,
sus sombras tejen,
y en sus bordes duermen
infinidad de doncellas;
algunas abandonaron la fría claridad
y con la abeja duermen;
despertadlas, doncella mía,
en el páramo y en la pradera,
¡ve!, susurra en su sueño,
suavemente al oído
la armónica cadencia
que soñaron oír,
mas, ¿qué puede despertar,
tan temprano a un ángel,
cuyo sueño ha transcurrido
bajo la fría luna,
como el conjuro aquel que ningún sueño
de brujería probar puede
aquella armónica cadencia
que le arrulló al reposo?”
Alados espíritus, y ángeles visibles,
serafines mil surgen a través del Empíreo,
donde revolotean sus recientes sueños en su vuelo soñoliento;
serafines absolutos, salvo en “conocimiento”, la luz viva
que cayó refractada al cruzar por tus límites, lejos,
¡oh muerte!, desde los ojos de Dios hasta esta estrella.
Bella fue aquella transgresión, más dulce aún que la muerte,
bella fue aquella transgresión, y hasta en nosotros el aliento
de la ciencia opaca el espejo de nuestra alegría…
Para ellos era el simún, una fuerza destructora,
pero, ¿qué motivo tiene ahora para ellos saber
que la verdad es falsedad, o la felicidad es amargura?
Bella fue su muerte, y el morir para ellos
fue el éxtasis postrero de la plenitud de la vida;
y más allá de aquella muerte, ninguna inmortalidad,
solamente el reflexivo sueño y no ha de “ser”.
Y allá, ¡pudiese mi fatigado y débil espíritu habitar
lejos de la eternidad del Cielo, y empero cuán lejos del Infierno!
¿Qué espíritu culpable, y en qué oscuros arbustos
no escuchó la inflamada la exhortación de aquel himno?
Solo dos; y cayeron, porque no concede gracia el Cielo
a quienes no escuchan por el palpitar de sus corazones:
un ángel doncella y su amante serafín.
¿Dónde, (y buscar puedes por los anchurosos cielos)
el ciego amor fue conocido como solemne deber?
El amor, sin guía, cayó entre “lágrimas de perfecto gemido”.
Resplandeciente fue el espíritu caído;
caminante por entre fuentes vestidas de musgo,
observador de las luces que en lo alto brillan,
soñador en el ser amado bajo los rayos de la luna.
Y, ¿por qué maravillarse?, si toda estrella allí es como un ojo
que mira tan amorosamente mirando el cabello de la belleza;
y ellas, y cada musgoso manantial eran sagrados
para su corazón poseído por el amor y la melancolía.
La noche encontró al joven Angelo (oh noche de dolor para él)
en el risco de una montaña,
que proyectándose a través del solemne cielo,
ofrece un aspecto amenazador a los mundos estrellados que bajo él yacen.
Aquí permaneció Angelo con su amor y con mirada aquilina,
dirigidos sus negros ojos en la extensión del firmamento;
los volvió hacia ella, pero entonces se estremecieron
de nuevo al contemplar la esfera de la Tierra.
“¡Ianthe, queridísima, mira, cuán tenue aquel rayo,
y qué bello es mirarlo hacia la lejanía!
No se mostraba así el orbe, aquella tarde otoñal
cuando dejé sus magníficos salones, sin lamentar ausentarme.
Aquella tarde, oh aquella tarde (debería muy bien recordarla)
los rayos solares cayeron en Lemnos hechiceramente
en los esculpidos arabescos de un dorado salón
donde permanecí, y en una tapizada pared,
y en mis párpados. ¡Oh, qué luz tan opresiva!
¡Cuán adormecedoramente los fue sumiendo en la noche!
Entre flores, niebla y amor huyeron
con el persa Saadi por su Gulistán.
Pero, ¡oh, esa luz! Me dormí; y mientras tanto la muerte
estaba como a la espera de mis sentidos en esa adorable isla,
tan delicadamente, que ni una asedada cabellera
durmiendo, despertó o supo que ahí permanecía.
El último rincón de la Tierra que pisé
fue un orgulloso templo llamado El Partenón;
más belleza se adhería en sus paredes de columnata
que la que se anida en tu ardoroso pecho latiente;
y cuando el anciano tiempo mis alas liberó,
desde allí me remonté como el águila de su torre,
y en un instante, años dejé tras de mí.
¡Todo el tiempo en que estuve suspendido sobre sus aéreos límites,
la mitad del jardín de su esfera surgió,
desplegando ante mi vista, como un mapa,
también deshabitadas ciudades del desierto!
Entonces me abrumó la belleza, Ianthe,
y casi deseé otra vez ser hombre”.
“¡Angelo mío!, y, ¿por qué ser uno de ellos?
Existe aquí para ti una morada más feliz y luminosa,
y campos más verdes que en aquel mundo,
y la belleza de la mujer, y el amor apasionado”.
“Pero, ¡escucha Ianthe! Cuando por su liviandad el aire
disminuyó, y al saltar mi alado espíritu hacia el espacio,
quizá mi cerebro se aturdió, porque el mundo
que poco antes abandoné, sumido estaba en el caos;
de su sitio emergió, sobre los vientos separados,
una llama que se desplazó por el ígneo Cielo.
Me pareció, entonces, mi dulce bien, que cesaba de volar,
cayendo no tan raudamente como antes me elevé,
sino con un movimiento trepidante, descendente,
a través de la luz, de los broncíneos rayos, hasta esta dorada estrella.
No fue larga la medida de mis horas en mi caída,
porque el más cercano de todos los astros, era éste, el tuyo.
¡Oh temible estrella!, y apareció en medio en una noche de júbilo,
un rojo Dedalión sobre la tímida Tierra”.
“Llegamos, y a la Tierra tuya, pero a nosotros
no se nos permite discutir el mandato de nuestra dama;
a todos los rincones llegamos, amor mío,
alegres luciérnagas de la noche fuimos y vinimos;
sin demandar razones, salvo el asentimiento angélico
que ella nos confiere, como es conferido por su Dios…
Pero, Angelo, ¡el tiempo gris nunca desplegó
sus alas sobre un mundo más bello que el tuyo!
Tenue era su pequeño disco, y solo los ojos de los ángeles
podían ver el espectro en los cielos,
cuando supo Al Aaraaf que su curso
era precipitado hacia aquí, sobre el estrellado mar;
¡mas cuando su gloria se expandió en el cielo,
así como el reluciente busto de la Belleza frente a la mirada humana,
nos detuvimos ante el legado de los hombres,
y tu astro tembló, tal como entonces tembló la Belleza!”.
Así discurriendo, los amantes se entretuvieron
durante la noche que se acortaba, y se acortaba, y no traía el día.
Cayeron ellos, porque el Cielo no concede esperanza
a quienes no escuchan por el palpitar de sus corazones.
O! nothing earthly save the ray
(Thrown back from flowers) of Beauty's eye,
As in those gardens where the day
Springs from the gems of Circassy –
O! nothing earthly save the thrill
Of melody in woodland rill –
Or (music of the passion-hearted)
Joy's voice so peacefully departed
That like the murmur in the shell,
Its echo dwelleth and will dwell –
Oh, nothing of the dross of ours –
Yet all the beauty – all the flowers
That list our Love, and deck our bowers –
Adorn yon world afar, afar –
The wandering star.
'Twas a sweet time for Nesace – for there
Her world lay lolling on the golden air,
Near four bright suns – a temporary rest –
A garden-spot in desert of the blest.
Away – away – 'mid seas of rays that roll
Empyrean splendor o'er th' unchained soul –
The soul that scarce (the billows are so dense)
Can struggle to its destin'd eminence, –
To distant spheres, from time to time, she rode
And late to ours, the favor'd one of God –
But, now, the ruler of an anchor'd realm,
She throws aside the sceptre – leaves the helm,
And, amid incense and high spiritual hymns,
Laves in quadruple light her angel limbs.
Now happiest, loveliest in yon lovely Earth,
Whence sprang the "Idea of Beauty" into birth,
(Falling in wreaths thro' many a startled star,
Like woman's hair 'mid pearls, until, afar,
It lit on hills Achaian, and there dwelt)
She looked into Infinity – and knelt.
Rich clouds, for canopies, about her curled –
Fit emblems of the model of her world –
Seen but in beauty – not impeding sight
Of other beauty glittering thro' the light –
A wreath that twined each starry form around,
And all the opal'd air in color bound.
All hurriedly she knelt upon a bed
Of flowers: of lilies such as rear'd the head
On the fair Capo Deucato, and sprang
So eagerly around about to hang
Upon the flying footsteps of – deep pride –
Of her who lov'd a mortal – and so died.
The Sephalica, budding with young bees,
Upreared its purple stem around her knees:—
And gemmy flower, of Trebizond misnam'd –
Inmate of highest stars, where erst it sham'd
All other loveliness: – its honied dew
(The fabled nectar that the heathen knew)
Deliriously sweet, was dropp'd from Heaven,
And fell on gardens of the unforgiven
In Trebizond – and on a sunny flower
So like its own above that, to this hour,
It still remaineth, torturing the bee
With madness, and unwonted reverie:
In Heaven, and all its environs, the leaf
And blossom of the fairy plant in grief
Disconsolate linger – grief that hangs her head,
Repenting follies that full long have Red,
Heaving her white breast to the balmy air,
Like guilty beauty, chasten'd and more fair:
Nyctanthes too, as sacred as the light
She fears to perfume, perfuming the night:
And Clytia, pondering between many a sun,
While pettish tears adown her petals run:
And that aspiring flower that sprang on Earth,
And died, ere scarce exalted into birth,
Bursting its odorous heart in spirit to wing
Its way to Heaven, from garden of a king:
And Valisnerian lotus, thither flown
From struggling with the waters of the Rhone:
And thy most lovely purple perfume, Zante!
Isola d'oro! – Fior di Levante!
And the Nelumbo bud that floats for ever
With Indian Cupid down the holy river –
Fair flowers, and fairy! to whose care is given
To bear the Goddess' song, in odours, up to Heaven:
"Spirit! that dwellest where,
In the deep sky,
The terrible and fair,
In beauty vie!
Beyond the line of blue –
The boundary of the star
Which turneth at the view
Of thy barrier and thy bar –
Of the barrier overgone
By the comets who were cast
From their pride and from their throne
To be drudges till the last –
To be carriers of fire
(The red fire of their heart)
With speed that may not tire
And with pain that shall not part –
Who livest – that we know –
In Eternity – we feel –
But the shadow of whose brow
What spirit shall reveal?
Tho' the beings whom thy Nesace,
Thy messenger, hath known
Have dream'd for thy Infinity
A model of their own –
Thy will is done, O God!
The star hath ridden high
Thro' many a tempest, but she rode
Beneath thy burning eye;
And here, in thought, to thee –
In thought that can alone
Ascend thy empire and so be
A partner of thy throne –
By winged Fantasy,
My embassy is given,
Till secrecy shall knowledge be
In the environs of Heaven."
She ceas'd – and buried then her burning cheek
Abash'd, amid the lilies there, to seek
A shelter from the fervor of His eye;
For the stars trembled at the Deity.
She stirr'd not – breath'd not – for a voice was there
How solemnly pervading the calm air!
A sound of silence on the startled ear
Which dreamy poets name "the music of the sphere."
Ours is a world of words: Quiet we call
"Silence" – which is the merest word of all.
All Nature speaks, and ev'n ideal things
Flap shadowy sounds from visionary wings –
But ah! not so when, thus, in realms on high
The eternal voice of God is passing by,
And the red winds are withering in the sky: –
"What tho 'in worlds which sightless cycles run,
Linked to a little system, and one sun –
Where all my love is folly and the crowd
Still think my terrors but the thunder cloud,
The storm, the earthquake, and the ocean-wrath -
(Ah! will they cross me in my angrier path?)
What tho' in worlds which own a single sun
The sands of Time grow dimmer as they run,
Yet thine is my resplendency, so given
To bear my secrets thro' the upper Heaven!
Leave tenantless thy crystal home, and fly,
With all thy train, athwart the moony sky –
Apart – like fire-flies in Sicilian night,
And wing to other worlds another light!
Divulge the secrets of thy embassy
To the proud orbs that twinkle – and so be
To ev'ry heart a barrier and a ban
Lest the stars totter in the guilt of man!"
Up rose the maiden in the yellow night,
The single-mooned eve! – on Earth we plight
Our faith to one love – and one moon adore –
The birth-place of young Beauty had no more.
As sprang that yellow star from downy hours
Up rose the maiden from her shrine of flowers,
And bent o'er sheeny mountains and dim plain
Her way, but left not yet her Therasaean reign.
High on a mountain of enamell'd head –
Such as the drowsy shepherd on his bed
Of giant pasturage lying at his ease,
Raising his heavy eyelid, starts and sees
With many a mutter'd "hope to be forgiven"
What time the moon is quadrated in Heaven –
Of rosy head that, towering far away
Into the sunlit ether, caught the ray
Of sunken suns at eve – at noon of night,
While the moon danc'd with the fair stranger light –
Uprear'd upon such height arose a pile
Of gorgeous columns on th' unburthen'd air,
Flashing from Parian marble that twin smile
Far down upon the wave that sparkled there,
And nursled the young mountain in its lair.
Of molten stars their pavement, such as fall
Thro' the ebon air, besilvering the pall
Of their own dissolution, while they die –
Adorning then the dwellings of the sky.
A dome, by linked light from Heaven let down,
Sat gently on these columns as a crown –
A window of one circular diamond, there,
Look'd out above into the purple air,
And rays from God shot down that meteor chain
And hallow'd all the beauty twice again,
Save, when, between th' empyrean and that ring,
Some eager spirit flapp'd his dusky wing.
But on the pillars Seraph eyes have seen
The dimness of this world: that greyish green
That Nature loves the best Beauty's grave
Lurk'd in each cornice, round each architrave –
And every sculptur'd cherub thereabout
That from his marble dwelling peered out,
Seem'd earthly in the shadow of his niche –
Achaian statues in a world so rich!
Friezes from Tadmor and Persepolis –
From Balbec, and the stilly, clear abyss
Of beautiful Gomorrah! O! the wave
Is now upon thee – but too late to save!—
Sound loves to revel in a summer night:
Witness the murmur of the grey twilight
That stole upon the ear, in Eyraco,
Of many a wild star-gazer long ago –
That stealeth ever on the ear of him
Who, musing, gazeth on the distance dim,
And sees the darkness coming as a cloud –
Is not its form – its voice – most palpable and loud?
But what is this? – it cometh, and it brings
A music with it – 'tis the rush of wings –
A pause – and then a sweeping, falling strain
And Nesace is in her halls again.
From the wild energy of wanton haste
Her cheeks were flushing, and her lips apart;
And zone that clung around her gentle waist
Had burst beneath the heaving of her heart
Within the centre of that hall to breathe,
She paused and panted, Zanthe! all beneath,
The fairy light that kiss'd her golden hair
And long'd to rest, yet could but sparkle there.
Young flowers were whispering in melody
To happy flowers that night – and tree to tree;
Fountains were gushing music as they fell
In many a star-lit grove, or moon-lit dell;
Yet silence came upon material things –
Fair flowers, bright waterfalls and angel wings –
And sound alone that from the spirit sprang
Bore burthen to the charm the maiden sang:
"'Neath the blue-bell or streamer –
Or tufted wild spray
That keeps, from the dreamer,
The moonbeam away –
Bright beings! that ponder,
With half closing eyes,
On the stars which your wonder
Hath drawn from the skies,
Till they glance thro' the shade, and
Come down to your brow
Like eyes of the maiden
Who calls on you now –
Arise! from your dreaming
In violet bowers,
To duty beseeming
These star-litten hours –
And shake from your tresses
Encumber'd with dew
The breath of those kisses
That cumber them too –
(O! how, without you, Love!
Could angels be blest?)
Those kisses of true Love
That lull'd ye to rest!
Up! – shake from your wing
Each hindering thing:
The dew of the night –
It would weigh down your flight
And true love caresses –
O, leave them apart!
They are light on the tresses,
But lead on the heart.
Ligeia! Ligeia!
My beautiful one!
Whose harshest idea
Will to melody run,
O! is it thy will
On the breezes to toss?
Or, capriciously still,
Like the lone Albatross,
Incumbent on night
(As she on the air)
To keep watch with delight
On the harmony there?
Ligeia! wherever
Thy image may be,
No magic shall sever
Thy music from thee.
Thou hast bound many eyes
In a dreamy sleep –
But the strains still arise
Which thy vigilance keep –
The sound of the rain,
Which leaps down to the flower –
And dances again
In the rhythm of the shower –
The murmur that springs
From the growing of grass
Are the music of things –
But are modell'd, alas! –
Away, then, my dearest,
Oh! hie thee away
To the springs that lie clearest
Beneath the moon-ray –
To lone lake that smiles,
In its dream of deep rest,
At the many star-isles
That enjewel its breast –
Where wild flowers, creeping,
Have mingled their shade,
On its margin is sleeping
Full many a maid –
Some have left the cool glade, and
Have slept with the bee –
Arouse them, my maiden,
On moorland and lea –
Go! breathe on their slumber,
All softly in ear,
Thy musical number
They slumbered to hear
For what can awaken
An angel so soon,
Whose sleep hath been taken
Beneath the cold moon,
As the spell which no slumber
Of witchery may test,
The rhythmical number
Which lull'd him to rest?"
Spirits in wing, and angels to the view,
A thousand seraphs burst th' Empyrean thro'
Young dreams still hovering on their drowsy flight –
Seraphs in all but "Knowledge," the keen light
That fell, refracted, thro' thy bounds, afar,
O Death! from eye of God upon that star:
Sweet was that error – sweeter still that death –
Sweet was that error – even with us the breath
Of Science dims the mirror of our joy –
To them 'twere the Simoom, and would destroy –
For what (to them) availeth it to know
That Truth is Falsehood – or that Bliss is Woe?
Sweet was their death – with them to die was rife
With the last ecstasy of satiate life –
Beyond that death no immortality –
But sleep that pondereth and is not "to be"!—
And there – oh! may my weary spirit dwell –
Apart from Heaven's Eternity – and yet how far from Hell!
What guilty spirit, in what shrubbery dim,
Heard not the stirring summons of that hymn?
But two: they fell: for Heaven no grace imparts
To those who hear not for their beating hearts.
A maiden-angel and her seraph-lover –
O! where (and ye may seek the wide skies over)
Was Love, the blind, near sober Duty known?
Unguided Love hath fallen – 'mid "tears of perfect moan."
He was a goodly spirit – he who fell:
A wanderer by mossy-mantled well –
A gazer on the lights that shine above –
A dreamer in the moonbeam by his love:
What wonder? for each star is eye-like there,
And looks so sweetly down on Beauty's hair –
And they, and ev'ry mossy spring were holy
To his love-haunted heart and melancholy.
The night had found (to him a night of woe)
Upon a mountain crag, young Angelo –
Beetling it bends athwart the solemn sky,
And scowls on starry worlds that down beneath it lie.
Here sat he with his love – his dark eye bent
With eagle gaze along the firmament:
Now turn'd it upon her – but ever then
It trembled to the orb of EARTH again.
"Ianthe, dearest, see – how dim that ray!
How lovely 'tis to look so far away!
She seem'd not thus upon that autumn eve
I left her gorgeous halls – nor mourn'd to leave.
That eve – that eve – I should remember well –
The sun-ray dropp'd in Lemnos, with a spell
On th' Arabesq' carving of a gilded hall
Wherein I sate, and on the drap'ried wall –
And on my eyelids – O! the heavy light!
How drowsily it weigh'd them into night!
On flowers, before, and mist, and love they ran
With Persian Saadi in his Gulistan:
But O! that light! – I slumber'd – Death, the while,
Stole o'er my senses in that lovely isle
So softly that no single silken hair
Awoke that slept – or knew that he was there.
"The last spot of Earth's orb I trod upon
Was a proud temple call'd the Parthenon;
More beauty clung around her column'd wall
Than ev'n thy glowing bosom beats withal,
And when old Time my wing did disenthral
Thence sprang I – as the eagle from his tower,
And years I left behind me in an hour.
What time upon her airy bounds I hung,
One half the garden of her globe was flung
Unrolling as a chart unto my view –
Tenantless cities of the desert too!
Ianthe, beauty crowded on me then,
And half I wish'd to be again of men."
"My Angelo! and why of them to be?
A brighter dwelling-place is here for thee –
And greener fields than in yon world above,
And woman's loveliness – and passionate love."
"But, list, Ianthe! when the air so soft
Fail'd, as my pennon'd spirit leapt aloft,
Perhaps my brain grew dizzy – but the world
I left so late was into chaos hurl'd –
Sprang from her station, on the winds apart.
And roll'd, a flame, the fiery Heaven athwart.
Methought, my sweet one, then I ceased to soar
And fell – not swiftly as I rose before,
But with a downward, tremulous motion thro'
Light, brazen rays, this golden star unto!
Nor long the measure of my falling hours,
For nearest of all stars was thine to ours –
Dread star! that came, amid a night of mirth,
A red Daedalion on the timid Earth."
"We came – and to thy Earth – but not to us
Be given our lady's bidding to discuss:
We came, my love; around, above, below,
Gay fire-fly of the night we come and go,
Nor ask a reason save the angel-nod
She grants to us, as granted by her God –
But, Angelo, than thine grey Time unfurl'd
Never his fairy wing o'er fairier world!
Dim was its little disk, and angel eyes
Alone could see the phantom in the skies,
When first Al Aaraaf knew her course to be
Headlong thitherward o'er the starry sea –
But when its glory swell'd upon the sky,
As glowing Beauty's bust beneath man's eye,
We paused before the heritage of men,
And thy star trembled – as doth Beauty then!"
Thus, in discourse, the lovers whiled away
The night that waned and waned and brought no day.
They fell: for Heaven to them no hope imparts
Who hear not for the beating of their hearts..
Edgar Allan Poe (1809-1849)
(Thrown back from flowers) of Beauty's eye,
As in those gardens where the day
Springs from the gems of Circassy –
O! nothing earthly save the thrill
Of melody in woodland rill –
Or (music of the passion-hearted)
Joy's voice so peacefully departed
That like the murmur in the shell,
Its echo dwelleth and will dwell –
Oh, nothing of the dross of ours –
Yet all the beauty – all the flowers
That list our Love, and deck our bowers –
Adorn yon world afar, afar –
The wandering star.
'Twas a sweet time for Nesace – for there
Her world lay lolling on the golden air,
Near four bright suns – a temporary rest –
A garden-spot in desert of the blest.
Away – away – 'mid seas of rays that roll
Empyrean splendor o'er th' unchained soul –
The soul that scarce (the billows are so dense)
Can struggle to its destin'd eminence, –
To distant spheres, from time to time, she rode
And late to ours, the favor'd one of God –
But, now, the ruler of an anchor'd realm,
She throws aside the sceptre – leaves the helm,
And, amid incense and high spiritual hymns,
Laves in quadruple light her angel limbs.
Now happiest, loveliest in yon lovely Earth,
Whence sprang the "Idea of Beauty" into birth,
(Falling in wreaths thro' many a startled star,
Like woman's hair 'mid pearls, until, afar,
It lit on hills Achaian, and there dwelt)
She looked into Infinity – and knelt.
Rich clouds, for canopies, about her curled –
Fit emblems of the model of her world –
Seen but in beauty – not impeding sight
Of other beauty glittering thro' the light –
A wreath that twined each starry form around,
And all the opal'd air in color bound.
All hurriedly she knelt upon a bed
Of flowers: of lilies such as rear'd the head
On the fair Capo Deucato, and sprang
So eagerly around about to hang
Upon the flying footsteps of – deep pride –
Of her who lov'd a mortal – and so died.
The Sephalica, budding with young bees,
Upreared its purple stem around her knees:—
And gemmy flower, of Trebizond misnam'd –
Inmate of highest stars, where erst it sham'd
All other loveliness: – its honied dew
(The fabled nectar that the heathen knew)
Deliriously sweet, was dropp'd from Heaven,
And fell on gardens of the unforgiven
In Trebizond – and on a sunny flower
So like its own above that, to this hour,
It still remaineth, torturing the bee
With madness, and unwonted reverie:
In Heaven, and all its environs, the leaf
And blossom of the fairy plant in grief
Disconsolate linger – grief that hangs her head,
Repenting follies that full long have Red,
Heaving her white breast to the balmy air,
Like guilty beauty, chasten'd and more fair:
Nyctanthes too, as sacred as the light
She fears to perfume, perfuming the night:
And Clytia, pondering between many a sun,
While pettish tears adown her petals run:
And that aspiring flower that sprang on Earth,
And died, ere scarce exalted into birth,
Bursting its odorous heart in spirit to wing
Its way to Heaven, from garden of a king:
And Valisnerian lotus, thither flown
From struggling with the waters of the Rhone:
And thy most lovely purple perfume, Zante!
Isola d'oro! – Fior di Levante!
And the Nelumbo bud that floats for ever
With Indian Cupid down the holy river –
Fair flowers, and fairy! to whose care is given
To bear the Goddess' song, in odours, up to Heaven:
"Spirit! that dwellest where,
In the deep sky,
The terrible and fair,
In beauty vie!
Beyond the line of blue –
The boundary of the star
Which turneth at the view
Of thy barrier and thy bar –
Of the barrier overgone
By the comets who were cast
From their pride and from their throne
To be drudges till the last –
To be carriers of fire
(The red fire of their heart)
With speed that may not tire
And with pain that shall not part –
Who livest – that we know –
In Eternity – we feel –
But the shadow of whose brow
What spirit shall reveal?
Tho' the beings whom thy Nesace,
Thy messenger, hath known
Have dream'd for thy Infinity
A model of their own –
Thy will is done, O God!
The star hath ridden high
Thro' many a tempest, but she rode
Beneath thy burning eye;
And here, in thought, to thee –
In thought that can alone
Ascend thy empire and so be
A partner of thy throne –
By winged Fantasy,
My embassy is given,
Till secrecy shall knowledge be
In the environs of Heaven."
She ceas'd – and buried then her burning cheek
Abash'd, amid the lilies there, to seek
A shelter from the fervor of His eye;
For the stars trembled at the Deity.
She stirr'd not – breath'd not – for a voice was there
How solemnly pervading the calm air!
A sound of silence on the startled ear
Which dreamy poets name "the music of the sphere."
Ours is a world of words: Quiet we call
"Silence" – which is the merest word of all.
All Nature speaks, and ev'n ideal things
Flap shadowy sounds from visionary wings –
But ah! not so when, thus, in realms on high
The eternal voice of God is passing by,
And the red winds are withering in the sky: –
"What tho 'in worlds which sightless cycles run,
Linked to a little system, and one sun –
Where all my love is folly and the crowd
Still think my terrors but the thunder cloud,
The storm, the earthquake, and the ocean-wrath -
(Ah! will they cross me in my angrier path?)
What tho' in worlds which own a single sun
The sands of Time grow dimmer as they run,
Yet thine is my resplendency, so given
To bear my secrets thro' the upper Heaven!
Leave tenantless thy crystal home, and fly,
With all thy train, athwart the moony sky –
Apart – like fire-flies in Sicilian night,
And wing to other worlds another light!
Divulge the secrets of thy embassy
To the proud orbs that twinkle – and so be
To ev'ry heart a barrier and a ban
Lest the stars totter in the guilt of man!"
Up rose the maiden in the yellow night,
The single-mooned eve! – on Earth we plight
Our faith to one love – and one moon adore –
The birth-place of young Beauty had no more.
As sprang that yellow star from downy hours
Up rose the maiden from her shrine of flowers,
And bent o'er sheeny mountains and dim plain
Her way, but left not yet her Therasaean reign.
High on a mountain of enamell'd head –
Such as the drowsy shepherd on his bed
Of giant pasturage lying at his ease,
Raising his heavy eyelid, starts and sees
With many a mutter'd "hope to be forgiven"
What time the moon is quadrated in Heaven –
Of rosy head that, towering far away
Into the sunlit ether, caught the ray
Of sunken suns at eve – at noon of night,
While the moon danc'd with the fair stranger light –
Uprear'd upon such height arose a pile
Of gorgeous columns on th' unburthen'd air,
Flashing from Parian marble that twin smile
Far down upon the wave that sparkled there,
And nursled the young mountain in its lair.
Of molten stars their pavement, such as fall
Thro' the ebon air, besilvering the pall
Of their own dissolution, while they die –
Adorning then the dwellings of the sky.
A dome, by linked light from Heaven let down,
Sat gently on these columns as a crown –
A window of one circular diamond, there,
Look'd out above into the purple air,
And rays from God shot down that meteor chain
And hallow'd all the beauty twice again,
Save, when, between th' empyrean and that ring,
Some eager spirit flapp'd his dusky wing.
But on the pillars Seraph eyes have seen
The dimness of this world: that greyish green
That Nature loves the best Beauty's grave
Lurk'd in each cornice, round each architrave –
And every sculptur'd cherub thereabout
That from his marble dwelling peered out,
Seem'd earthly in the shadow of his niche –
Achaian statues in a world so rich!
Friezes from Tadmor and Persepolis –
From Balbec, and the stilly, clear abyss
Of beautiful Gomorrah! O! the wave
Is now upon thee – but too late to save!—
Sound loves to revel in a summer night:
Witness the murmur of the grey twilight
That stole upon the ear, in Eyraco,
Of many a wild star-gazer long ago –
That stealeth ever on the ear of him
Who, musing, gazeth on the distance dim,
And sees the darkness coming as a cloud –
Is not its form – its voice – most palpable and loud?
But what is this? – it cometh, and it brings
A music with it – 'tis the rush of wings –
A pause – and then a sweeping, falling strain
And Nesace is in her halls again.
From the wild energy of wanton haste
Her cheeks were flushing, and her lips apart;
And zone that clung around her gentle waist
Had burst beneath the heaving of her heart
Within the centre of that hall to breathe,
She paused and panted, Zanthe! all beneath,
The fairy light that kiss'd her golden hair
And long'd to rest, yet could but sparkle there.
Young flowers were whispering in melody
To happy flowers that night – and tree to tree;
Fountains were gushing music as they fell
In many a star-lit grove, or moon-lit dell;
Yet silence came upon material things –
Fair flowers, bright waterfalls and angel wings –
And sound alone that from the spirit sprang
Bore burthen to the charm the maiden sang:
"'Neath the blue-bell or streamer –
Or tufted wild spray
That keeps, from the dreamer,
The moonbeam away –
Bright beings! that ponder,
With half closing eyes,
On the stars which your wonder
Hath drawn from the skies,
Till they glance thro' the shade, and
Come down to your brow
Like eyes of the maiden
Who calls on you now –
Arise! from your dreaming
In violet bowers,
To duty beseeming
These star-litten hours –
And shake from your tresses
Encumber'd with dew
The breath of those kisses
That cumber them too –
(O! how, without you, Love!
Could angels be blest?)
Those kisses of true Love
That lull'd ye to rest!
Up! – shake from your wing
Each hindering thing:
The dew of the night –
It would weigh down your flight
And true love caresses –
O, leave them apart!
They are light on the tresses,
But lead on the heart.
Ligeia! Ligeia!
My beautiful one!
Whose harshest idea
Will to melody run,
O! is it thy will
On the breezes to toss?
Or, capriciously still,
Like the lone Albatross,
Incumbent on night
(As she on the air)
To keep watch with delight
On the harmony there?
Ligeia! wherever
Thy image may be,
No magic shall sever
Thy music from thee.
Thou hast bound many eyes
In a dreamy sleep –
But the strains still arise
Which thy vigilance keep –
The sound of the rain,
Which leaps down to the flower –
And dances again
In the rhythm of the shower –
The murmur that springs
From the growing of grass
Are the music of things –
But are modell'd, alas! –
Away, then, my dearest,
Oh! hie thee away
To the springs that lie clearest
Beneath the moon-ray –
To lone lake that smiles,
In its dream of deep rest,
At the many star-isles
That enjewel its breast –
Where wild flowers, creeping,
Have mingled their shade,
On its margin is sleeping
Full many a maid –
Some have left the cool glade, and
Have slept with the bee –
Arouse them, my maiden,
On moorland and lea –
Go! breathe on their slumber,
All softly in ear,
Thy musical number
They slumbered to hear
For what can awaken
An angel so soon,
Whose sleep hath been taken
Beneath the cold moon,
As the spell which no slumber
Of witchery may test,
The rhythmical number
Which lull'd him to rest?"
Spirits in wing, and angels to the view,
A thousand seraphs burst th' Empyrean thro'
Young dreams still hovering on their drowsy flight –
Seraphs in all but "Knowledge," the keen light
That fell, refracted, thro' thy bounds, afar,
O Death! from eye of God upon that star:
Sweet was that error – sweeter still that death –
Sweet was that error – even with us the breath
Of Science dims the mirror of our joy –
To them 'twere the Simoom, and would destroy –
For what (to them) availeth it to know
That Truth is Falsehood – or that Bliss is Woe?
Sweet was their death – with them to die was rife
With the last ecstasy of satiate life –
Beyond that death no immortality –
But sleep that pondereth and is not "to be"!—
And there – oh! may my weary spirit dwell –
Apart from Heaven's Eternity – and yet how far from Hell!
What guilty spirit, in what shrubbery dim,
Heard not the stirring summons of that hymn?
But two: they fell: for Heaven no grace imparts
To those who hear not for their beating hearts.
A maiden-angel and her seraph-lover –
O! where (and ye may seek the wide skies over)
Was Love, the blind, near sober Duty known?
Unguided Love hath fallen – 'mid "tears of perfect moan."
He was a goodly spirit – he who fell:
A wanderer by mossy-mantled well –
A gazer on the lights that shine above –
A dreamer in the moonbeam by his love:
What wonder? for each star is eye-like there,
And looks so sweetly down on Beauty's hair –
And they, and ev'ry mossy spring were holy
To his love-haunted heart and melancholy.
The night had found (to him a night of woe)
Upon a mountain crag, young Angelo –
Beetling it bends athwart the solemn sky,
And scowls on starry worlds that down beneath it lie.
Here sat he with his love – his dark eye bent
With eagle gaze along the firmament:
Now turn'd it upon her – but ever then
It trembled to the orb of EARTH again.
"Ianthe, dearest, see – how dim that ray!
How lovely 'tis to look so far away!
She seem'd not thus upon that autumn eve
I left her gorgeous halls – nor mourn'd to leave.
That eve – that eve – I should remember well –
The sun-ray dropp'd in Lemnos, with a spell
On th' Arabesq' carving of a gilded hall
Wherein I sate, and on the drap'ried wall –
And on my eyelids – O! the heavy light!
How drowsily it weigh'd them into night!
On flowers, before, and mist, and love they ran
With Persian Saadi in his Gulistan:
But O! that light! – I slumber'd – Death, the while,
Stole o'er my senses in that lovely isle
So softly that no single silken hair
Awoke that slept – or knew that he was there.
"The last spot of Earth's orb I trod upon
Was a proud temple call'd the Parthenon;
More beauty clung around her column'd wall
Than ev'n thy glowing bosom beats withal,
And when old Time my wing did disenthral
Thence sprang I – as the eagle from his tower,
And years I left behind me in an hour.
What time upon her airy bounds I hung,
One half the garden of her globe was flung
Unrolling as a chart unto my view –
Tenantless cities of the desert too!
Ianthe, beauty crowded on me then,
And half I wish'd to be again of men."
"My Angelo! and why of them to be?
A brighter dwelling-place is here for thee –
And greener fields than in yon world above,
And woman's loveliness – and passionate love."
"But, list, Ianthe! when the air so soft
Fail'd, as my pennon'd spirit leapt aloft,
Perhaps my brain grew dizzy – but the world
I left so late was into chaos hurl'd –
Sprang from her station, on the winds apart.
And roll'd, a flame, the fiery Heaven athwart.
Methought, my sweet one, then I ceased to soar
And fell – not swiftly as I rose before,
But with a downward, tremulous motion thro'
Light, brazen rays, this golden star unto!
Nor long the measure of my falling hours,
For nearest of all stars was thine to ours –
Dread star! that came, amid a night of mirth,
A red Daedalion on the timid Earth."
"We came – and to thy Earth – but not to us
Be given our lady's bidding to discuss:
We came, my love; around, above, below,
Gay fire-fly of the night we come and go,
Nor ask a reason save the angel-nod
She grants to us, as granted by her God –
But, Angelo, than thine grey Time unfurl'd
Never his fairy wing o'er fairier world!
Dim was its little disk, and angel eyes
Alone could see the phantom in the skies,
When first Al Aaraaf knew her course to be
Headlong thitherward o'er the starry sea –
But when its glory swell'd upon the sky,
As glowing Beauty's bust beneath man's eye,
We paused before the heritage of men,
And thy star trembled – as doth Beauty then!"
Thus, in discourse, the lovers whiled away
The night that waned and waned and brought no day.
They fell: for Heaven to them no hope imparts
Who hear not for the beating of their hearts..
Edgar Allan Poe (1809-1849)
Poemas de E.A. Poe. I Poemas de ángeles.
Más literatura gótica:
El análisis y resumen del poema de Edgar Allan Poe: Al Aaraaf (Al Aaraaf) fueron realizados por El Espejo Gótico. Para su reproducción escríbenos a elespejoogtico@gmail.com
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