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Which is enduring, so be deep!
A DREAM WITHIN A DREAM.
That crowd around my earthly path-
My soul at least a solace hath
Like some enchanted far-off isle
With storms, but where meanwhile
Just o'er that one bright island smile.
The leaves they were crisped and sere
The leaves they were withering and sere;
Of my most immemorial year;
In the misty mid region of Weir-
In the ghoul-haunted woodland of Weir.
Here once, through an alley titanic
cypress, I roamed with my Soul-
As the scoriac rivers that roll
As the lavas that restlessly roll
In the ultimate climes of the pole-
In the realms of the boreal pole.
But our thoughts they were palsied and sere
Our memories were treacherous and sereFor we knew not the month was October,
And we marked not the night of the year
(Ah night of all nights in the year!) We noted not the dim lake of Auber
(Though once we had journeyed down here) Remembered not the dank tarn of Auber,
Nor the ghoul haunted woodland of Weir.
And now, as the night was senescent,
And star-dials pointed to morn
As the star-dials hinted of mornAt the end of our path a liquescent
And nebulous lustre was born, Out of which a miraculous crescent
Arose with a duplicate hornAstarte's bediamonded crescent
Distinct with its duplicate horn.
And I said, "She is warmer than Dian :
She rolls through an ether of sighs
She revels in a region of sighs:
These cheeks, where the worm never dies,
To point us the path to the skies-
Come up, in despite of the Lion,
, To shine on us with her bright eyesCome up through the lair of the Lion,
With love in her luminous eyes." But Psyche, uplifting her finger,
Said—“Sadly this star I mistrust
Her pallor I strangely mistrust:Oh hasten!-oh let us not linger!
Oh fly!--let us fly!—for we must.” In terror she spoke, letting sink her
Wings till they trailed in the dustIn agony sobbed, letting sink her
Plumes till they trailed in the dust
Till they sorrowfully trailed in the dust. I replied—“This is nothing but dreaming:
Let us on by this tremulous light!
Let us bathe in this crystalline light! Its sibylic splendour is beaming
With hope and in beauty to-night:
See!—it flickers up the sky through the night! Ah we safely may trust to its gleaming,
And be sure it will lead us aright:
That cannot but guide us aright,
And tempted her out of her gloom
And conquered her scruples and gloom; And we passed to the end of the vista,
But were stopped by the door of a tomb
By the door of a legended tomb;
On the door of this legended tomb?"
'Tis the vault of thy lost Ulalume!” Then
ashen and sober
And I cried—“It was surely October
On this very night of last year
Ah what demon has tempted me here?
This misty mid region of Weir-
This ghoul-haunted woodland of Weir."
Like those Nicean barks of yore
The weary way-worn wanderer bore
To his own native shore.
Thy hyacinth hair, thy classic face,
To the glory that was Greece,
And the grandeur that was Rome.
How statue-like I see thee stand,
The agate lamp within thy hand!
Are holy land! i This is the form of the poem which obtained, I presume, the ultimate approval of its author. An earlier version gave an additional last stanza :Said we then—the two, then—"Ah can it
Have been that the woodlandish ghouls
The pitiful, the merciful ghouls-
From the secret that lies in these wolds
From the thing that lies hidden in these wolds-
From the limbo of lunary souls-
From the hell of the planetary souls?”