Ворон

“’Neath 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 weight 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,
        O! hie thee away
To 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,
The musical number
        They slumber’d 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?”

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