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Not long ago, the writer of these lines,
Than even seraph harper, Israfel,
THE skies they were ashen and sober;
The leaves they were crisped and serem
The leaves they were withering and sere ; It was night in the lonesome October
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,
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
In the ultimate climes of the pole-
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 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-
At 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, And has come past the stars of the Lion,
To point us the path to the skies
To the Lethean peace of the skiesCome 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 :