Deep in earth my love is lying
    And I must weep alone.



Though I turn, I fly not —
    I cannot depart;
I would try, but try not
    To release my heart.
And my hopes are dying
    While, on dreams relying,
I am spelled by art.
Thus, the bright snake coiling
    [']Neath the forest tree
Wins the bird, beguiling,
    To come down and see:
Like that bird the lover
Round his fate will hover
Till the blow is over
And he sinks―like me.


To M. L. S______

  Of all who hail thy presence as the morning
Of all to whom thine absence is the night
The blotting utterly from out high heaven
The sacred sun of all who, weeping, bless thee
Hourly for hope for life ah! above all,
For the resurrection of deep‑buried faith
In Truth, in Virtue, in Humanity
Of all who, on Despairs unhallowed bed
Lying down to die, have suddenly arisen
At thy soft‑murmured words, Let there be light!
At the soft‑murmured words that were fulfilled
In the seraphic glancing of thine eyes
Of all who owe thee most whose gratitude
Nearest resembles worship oh, remember
The truest the most fervently devoted,
And think that these weak lines are written by him
By him who, as he pens them, thrills to think
His spirit is communing with an angels.



  The pulse beats ten and intermits;
God nerve the soul that ne'er forgets
In calm or storm, by night or day,
 Its steady toil, its loyalty.
 [. . . ]
 [. . . ]
 The pulse beats ten and intermits;
 God shield the soul that ne'er forgets.
 [. . . ]
 [. . . ]
 The pulse beats ten and intermits;
 God guide the soul that ne'er forgets.
 [. . . ]
 [. . . ] so tired, so weary,
 The soft head bows, the sweet eyes close,
 The faithful heart yields to repose.




The skies they were ashen and sober;
         The leaves they were crispéd and sere
         The leaves they were withering and sere:
It was night, in the lonesome October
         Of my most immemorial year:
It was hard by the dim lake of Auber,
         In the misty mid region of Weir
It was down by the dank tarn of Auber,
         In the ghoul-haunted woodland of Weir.

Here once, through an alley Titanic,
         Of cypress, I roamed with my Soul
         Of cypress, with Psyche, my Soul.
These were days when my heart was volcanic
         As the scoriac rivers that roll
        As the lavas that restlessly roll
Their sulphurous currents down Yaanek
         In the ultimate climes of the Pole
That groan as they roll down Mount Yaanek
        In the realms of the Boreal Pole.

Our talk had been serious and sober,
        But our thoughts they were palsied and sere
        Our memories were treacherous and sere;
For 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)
We 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 morn
At the end of our path a liquescent
        And the nebulous lustre was born,
Out of which a miraculous crescent
        Arose with a duplicate horn
Astartes 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.
She has seen that the tears are not dry on
        These cheeks, where the worm never dies
And has come past the stars of the Lion,
         To point us the path to the skies
        To the Lethean peace of the skies
Come up, in despite of the Lion,
       To shine on us with her bright eyes
Come 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:
Ah, hasten! ah, let us not linger!
       Ah, fly! –– let us fly! –– for we must.”
In terror she spoke, letting sink her
       Wings till they trailed in the dust
In 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 Sibyllic splendor 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
We surely may trust to a gleaming,
        That cannot but guide us aright,
       Since it flickers up to Heaven through the night.

Thus I pacified Psyche and kissed her,
      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;
And I said: What is written, sweet sister,
    On the door of this legended tomb?
She replied: Ualume Ulalume!
T is the vault of thy lost Ulalume!

Then my heart it grew ashen and sober
   As the leaves that were crispéd and sere
   As the leaves that were withering and sere;
And I cried: It was surely October
   On this very night of last year
   That I journeyed I journeyed down here!
   That I brought a dread burden down here
   On this night of all nights in the year,
   Ah, what demon hath tempted me here?
Well I know, now, this dim lake of Auber
   This misty mid region of Weir
Well I know, now, this dank tarn of Auber,
   This ghoul‑haunted woodland of Weir.

Said we, then the two, then: Ah, can it
   Have been that the woodlandish ghouls
   The pitiful, the merciful ghouls.
To bar up our way and to ban it
   From the secret that lies in these wolds
   From the thing that lies hidden in these wolds
Have drawn up the spectre of a planet
   From the limbo of lunary souls
This sinfully scintillant planet
  From the Hell of the planetary souls?