Helen, thy beauty is to me
Like those Nicean barks of yore,
That gently, o'er a perfum'd sea,
The weary way-worn wanderer bore
To his own native shore.
On desperate seas long wont to roam,
Thy hyacinth hair, thy classic face,
Thy Naiad airs have brought me home
To the beauty of fair Greece,
And the grandeur of old Rome.
Lo ! in that little window-niche
How statue-like I see thee stand!
The folded scroll within thy hand ?
A Psyche from the regions which
Are Holy land !
(1845 version)
Helen, thy beauty is to me
Like those Nicean barks of yore
That gently, o'er a perfumed sea,
The weary, way-worn wanderer bore
To his own native shore.
On desperate seas long wont to roam,
Thy hyacinth hair, thy classic face,
Thy Naiad airs have brought me home
To the glory that was Greece,
And the grandeur that was Rome.
Lo, in yon brilliant window-niche
How statue-like I see thee stand,
The agate lamp within thy hand,
Ah! Psyche, from the regions which
Are Holy Land!
I saw thee once -- once only -- years ago:
I must not say how many -- but not many.
It was a July midnight; and from out
A full-orbed moon, that, like thine own soul, soaring
Sought a precipitate pathway up through heaven,
There fell a silvery-silken veil of light,
With quietude and sultriness and slumber,
Upon the upturned faces of a thousand
Roses that grew in an enchanted garden,
Where no wind dared to stir, unless on tiptoe:
Fell on the upturned faces of these roses
That gave out, in return for the love-light,
Their odorous souls in an ecstatic death:
Fell on the upturned faces of these roses
That smiled and died in this parterre, enchanted
By thee, and by the poetry of thy presence.
Clad all in white, upon a violet bank
I saw thee half reclining; while the moon
Fell on the upturned faces of the roses,
And on thine own, upturned -- alas, in sorrow!
Was it not Fate, that, on this July midnight --
Was it not Fate (whose name is also Sorrow)
That bade me pause before that garden-gate
To breathe the incense of those slumbering roses?
No footstep stirred: the hated world all slept,
Save only thee and me -- O Heaven! O God!
How my heart beats in coupling those two words! --
Save only thee and me. I paused, I looked,
And in an instant all things disappeared.
(Ah, bear in mind this garden was enchanted!)
The pearly lustre of the moon went out:
The mossy banks and the meandering paths,
The happy flowers and the repining trees,
Were seen no more: the very roses' odors
Died in the arms of the adoring airs.
All, all expired save thee -- save less than thou:
Save only the divine light in thine eyes,
Save but the soul in thine uplifted eyes:
I saw but them -- they were the world to me:
I saw but them, saw only them for hours,
Saw only them until the moon went down.
What wild heart-histories seemed to lie enwritten
Upon those crystalline, celestial spheres;
How dark a woe, yet how sublime a hope;
How silently serene a sea of pride;
How daring an ambition; yet how deep,
How fathomless a capacity for love!
But now, at length, dear Dian sank from sight,
Into a western couch of thunder-cloud;
And thou, a ghost, amid the entombing trees
Didst glide away. Only thine eyes remained.
They would not go -- they never yet have gone;
Lighting my lonely pathway home that night,
They have not left me (as my hopes have) since;
They follow me -- they lead me through the years;
They are my ministers -- yet I their slave;
Their office is to illumine and enkindle
My duty, to be saved by their bright light,
And purified in their electric fire,
And sanctified in their elysian fire;
They fill my soul with beauty (which is hope),
And are, far up in heaven, the stars I kneel to
In the sad, silent watches of my night;
While even in the meridian glare of day
I see them still -- two sweetly scintillant
Venuses, unextinguished by the sun.
"Poe's stories fall into two classes, the analytical, of which the "Gold Bug" is an example, and the supernatural,
such as "Ligeia." In many of his tales, however, these qualities are commingled. He was neither a humorist nor a
character painter, and none of his stories touch the heart; the man was deficient in human sympathies. They are to a
high degree strange, impressive and ingenious, faultless in workmanship and structure, and masterpieces of art.
They are finished, like gems, and of permanent literary worth; yet they can hardly be called works of inspiration;
they are gems, not flowers. Poe's style is clear, succinct and polished, but self-conscious and artificial. The
stories are by no means all of equal merit; Poe lacked good taste, and frequently overstepped the boundaries between
the terrible and the revolting, the commonplace and the simple, fun and buffoonery. All his humorous tales are dismal
failures. But when he is at his best, no writer can surpass him; we may say that he is unrivalled. In poetry, Poe is if
possible more original and solitary than in his prose. The eerie and elfin beauty of some of his verses is magical;
one is enchanted one knows not how. He had theories in poetry, as in prose; but it is probable that he squared his
theories with his compositions, more often than the opposite. But there is more of art than of heart even in Poe's poetry;
and we find that we go to him to be entertained and stimulated, but not for the needs of the deeper soul. His career
was pathetic; but his genius is triumphant." from the prologue to Poe's works in
Masterpieces
and History of Literature (Vol. 9), pp 140-41
