The Sleeper

Edgar Allan Poe

1809 to 1849

Poem Image
Track 1

Reconstruct the poem by dragging each line into its correct position. Your goal is to reassemble the original poem as accurately as possible. As you move the lines, you'll see whether your arrangement is correct, helping you explore the poem's flow and meaning. You can also print out the jumbled poem to cut up and reassemble in the classroom. Either way, take your time, enjoy the process, and discover how the poet's words come together to create something truly beautiful.

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This window open to the night?
And would not, for the world, awake.
Against whose portals she hath thrown,
At midnight, in the month of June,
This bed for one more melancholy,
Far in the forest, dim and old,
An opiate vapor, dewy, dim,
A wonder to these garden trees!
Why and what art thou dreaming here?
Into the universal valley.
'Neath which thy slumb'ring soul lies hid,
That, o'er the floor and down the wall,
So fitfully—so fearfully—
Looking like Lethe, see! the lake
I pray to God that she may lie
Sure thou art come o'er far-off seas,
The lady sleeps! Oh, may her sleep,
She ne'er shall force an echo more,
All Beauty sleeps!—and lo! where lies
The lily lolls upon the wave;
My love, she sleeps! Oh, may her sleep,
This chamber changed for one more holy,
Strange is thy pallor! strange thy dress!
Laughingly through the lattice drop—
In childhood, many an idle stone—
Some sepulchre, remote, alone,
It was the dead who groaned within.
As it is lasting, so be deep!
Oh, lady dear, hast thou no fear?
The rosemary nods upon the grave;
Strange, above all, thy length of tress,
For her may some tall vault unfold—
While the pale sheeted ghosts go by!
The wanton airs, from the tree-top,
Some tomb from out whose sounding door
Forever with unopened eye,
Flit through thy chamber in and out,
Oh, lady bright! can it be right—
Exhales from out her golden rim,
Above the closed and fringéd lid
Thrilling to think, poor child of sin!
Like ghosts the shadows rise and fall!
Steals drowsily and musically
And this all solemn silentness!
Of her grand family funerals—
Soft may the worms about her creep!
Irene, with her Destinies!
Which is enduring, so be deep!
And wave the curtain canopy
A conscious slumber seems to take,
And softly dripping, drop by drop,
Some vault that oft hath flung its black
Upon the quiet mountain top,
And wingéd pannels fluttering back,
Triumphant, o'er the crested palls
The ruin moulders into rest;
I stand beneath the mystic moon.
Wrapping the fog about its breast,
Heaven have her in its sacred keep!
The bodiless airs, a wizard rout,