67 lines
1.9 KiB
Plaintext
67 lines
1.9 KiB
Plaintext
1831
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ISRAFEL
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by Edgar Allan Poe
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ISRAFEL
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In Heaven a spirit doth dwell
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"Whose heart-strings are a lute";
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None sing so wildly well
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As the angel Israfel,
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And the giddy stars (so legends tell),
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Ceasing their hymns, attend the spell
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Of his voice, all mute.
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Tottering above
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In her highest noon,
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The enamored moon
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Blushes with love,
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While, to listen, the red levin
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(With the rapid Pleiads, even,
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Which were seven,)
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Pauses in Heaven.
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And they say (the starry choir
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And the other listening things)
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That Israfeli's fire
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Is owing to that lyre
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By which he sits and sings-
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The trembling living wire
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Of those unusual strings.
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But the skies that angel trod,
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Where deep thoughts are a duty-
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Where Love's a grown-up God-
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Where the Houri glances are
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Imbued with all the beauty
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Which we worship in a star.
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Therefore thou art not wrong,
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Israfeli, who despisest
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An unimpassioned song;
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To thee the laurels belong,
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Best bard, because the wisest!
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Merrily live, and long!
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The ecstasies above
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With thy burning measures suit-
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Thy grief, thy joy, thy hate, thy love,
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With the fervor of thy lute-
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Well may the stars be mute!
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Yes, Heaven is thine; but this
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Is a world of sweets and sours;
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Our flowers are merely- flowers,
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And the shadow of thy perfect bliss
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Is the sunshine of ours.
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If I could dwell
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Where Israfel
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Hath dwelt, and he where I,
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He might not sing so wildly well
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A mortal melody,
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While a bolder note than this might swell
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From my lyre within the sky.
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-THE END-
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