Sleeper

<SPAN name="startofbook"></SPAN> <h3><SPAN name="section2t"></SPAN>The Sleeper</h3> <h2>by Edgar Allan Poe</h2> <p>At midnight, in the month of June,<br/> I stand beneath the mystic moon.<br/> An opiate vapor, dewy, dim,<br/> Exhales from out her golden rim,<br/> And, softly dripping, drop by drop,<br/> Upon the quiet mountain top,<br/> Steals drowsily and musically<br/> Into the universal valley.<br/> The rosemary nods upon the grave;<br/> The lily lolls upon the wave;<br/> Wrapping the fog about its breast,<br/> The ruin moulders into rest;<br/> Looking like Lethe, see! the lake<br/> A conscious slumber seems to take,<br/> And would not, for the world, awake.<br/> All Beauty sleeps!&mdash;and lo! where lies<br/> (Her casement open to the skies)<br/> Irene, with her Destinies!<br/><br/> Oh, lady bright! can it be right&mdash;<br/> This window open to the night!<br/> The wanton airs, from the tree-top,<br/> Laughingly through the lattice-drop&mdash;<br/> The bodiless airs, a wizard rout,<br/> Flit through thy chamber in and out,<br/> And wave the curtain canopy<br/> So fitfully&mdash;so fearfully&mdash;<br/> Above the closed and fringed lid<br/> 'Neath which thy slumb'ring soul lies hid,<br/> That, o'er the floor and down the wall,<br/> Like ghosts the shadows rise and fall!<br/> Oh, lady dear, hast thou no fear?<br/> Why and what art thou dreaming here?<br/> Sure thou art come o'er far-off seas,<br/> A wonder to these garden trees!<br/> Strange is thy pallor! strange thy dress!<br/> Strange, above all, thy length of tress,<br/> And this all-solemn silentness!<br/><br/> The lady sleeps! Oh, may her sleep<br/> Which is enduring, so be deep!<br/> Heaven have her in its sacred keep!<br/> This chamber changed for one more holy,<br/> This bed for one more melancholy,<br/> I pray to God that she may lie<br/> For ever with unopened eye,<br/> While the dim sheeted ghosts go by!<br/><br/> My love, she sleeps! Oh, may her sleep,<br/> As it is lasting, so be deep;<br/> Soft may the worms about her creep!<br/> Far in the forest, dim and old,<br/> For her may some tall vault unfold&mdash;<br/> Some vault that oft hath flung its black<br/> And winged panels fluttering back,<br/> Triumphant, o'er the crested palls,<br/> Of her grand family funerals&mdash;<br/> Some sepulchre, remote, alone,<br/> Against whose portal she hath thrown,<br/> In childhood many an idle stone&mdash;<br/> Some tomb from out whose sounding door<br/> She ne'er shall force an echo more,<br/> Thrilling to think, poor child of sin!<br/> It was the dead who groaned within.<br/></p> <p>1845<br/> </p> <div style="break-after:column;"></div><br />