The Sleeper

Edgar Allan Poe

1809 to 1849

Poem Image
Track 1

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Every 10th word

At midnight, in the month of June,
I stand the mystic moon.
An opiate vapor, dewy, dim,
Exhales out her golden rim,
And softly dripping, drop by drop,
Upon the quiet mountain top,
Steals drowsily and musically
the universal valley.
The rosemary nods upon the grave;
lily lolls upon the wave;
Wrapping the fog about breast,
The ruin moulders into rest;
Looking like Lethe, see! the lake
A conscious slumber seems to take,
And not, for the world, awake.
All Beauty sleeps!—and lo! where lies
Irene, with her Destinies!

Oh, lady bright! it be right—
This window open to the night?
wanton airs, from the tree-top,
Laughingly through the lattice drop—
The bodiless airs, a wizard rout,
Flit through thy in and out,
And wave the curtain canopy
So fitfully—so fearfully—
Above the closed and fringéd lid
’Neath which slumb’ring soul lies hid,
That, o’er the floor and the wall,
Like ghosts the shadows rise and fall!
Oh, lady dear, hast thou no fear?
Why and what thou dreaming here?
Sure thou art come o’er far-off seas,
A wonder to these garden trees!
Strange is thy pallor! strange thy dress!
Strange, above all, thy length of tress,
And this all solemn silentness!

The lady sleeps! Oh, her sleep,
Which is enduring, so be deep!
Heaven her in its sacred keep!
This chamber changed for more holy,
This bed for one more melancholy,
I to God that she may lie
Forever with unopened eye,
While the pale sheeted ghosts go by!

My love, sleeps! Oh, may her sleep,
As it is lasting, be deep!
Soft may the worms about her creep!
in the forest, dim and old,
For her may tall vault unfold—
Some vault that oft hath flung black
And wingéd pannels fluttering back,
Triumphant, o’er the palls
Of her grand family funerals—

Some sepulchre, remote, alone,
Against whose portals she hath thrown,
In childhood, many idle stone—
Some tomb from out whose sounding door
ne’er shall force an echo more,
Thrilling to think, child of sin!
It was the dead who groaned within.