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DREAM-LAND. Edgar Allan Poe

DREAM-LAND

        BY a route obscure and lonely,
         Haunted by ill angels only,
         Where an Eidolon, named NIGHT,
         On a black throne reigns upright,
         I have reached these lands but newly
         From an ultimate dim Thule—
         From a wild weird clime that lieth, sublime,
               Out of SPACE—out of TIME.

         Bottomless vales and boundless floods,
         And chasms, and caves, and Titian woods,
         With forms that no man can discover
         For the dews that drip all over;
         Mountains toppling evermore
         Into seas without a shore;
         Seas that restlessly aspire,
         Surging, unto skies of fire;
         Lakes that endlessly outspread
         Their lone waters—lone and dead,—
         Their still waters—still and chilly
         With the snows of the lolling lily.

         By the lakes that thus outspread
         Their lone waters, lone and dead,—
         Their sad waters, sad and chilly
         With the snows of the lolling lily,—
         By the mountains—near the river
         Murmuring lowly, murmuring ever,—
         By the grey woods,—by the swamp
         Where the toad and the newt encamp,—
         By the dismal tarns and pools
                 Where dwell the Ghouls,—
         By each spot the most unholy—
         In each nook most melancholy,—
         There the traveller meets aghast
         Sheeted Memories of the Past—
         Shrouded forms that start and sigh
         As they pass the wanderer by—
         White-robed forms of friends long given,
         In agony, to the Earth—and Heaven.

         For the heart whose woes are legion
         ‘Tis a peaceful, soothing region—
         For the spirit that walks in shadow
         ‘Tis—oh ‘tis an Eldorado!
         But the traveller, travelling through it,
         May not—dare not openly view it;
         Never its mysteries are exposed
         To the weak human eye unclosed;
         So wills its King, who hath forbid
         The uplifting of the fringed lid;
         And thus the sad Soul that here passes
         Beholds it but through darkened glasses.

         By a route obscure and lonely,
         Haunted by ill angels only,
         Where an Eidolon, named NIGHT,
         On a black throne reigns upright,
         I have wandered home but newly
         From this ultimate dim Thule.

1844.


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