Edgar Allan Poe Poem

To Isadore

Please log in or register to do it.



Beneath the vine-clad eaves,

Whose shadows fall before

Thy lowly cottage door

Under the lilac’s tremulous leaves—

Within thy snowy claspeed hand

The purple flowers it bore..

Last eve in dreams, I saw thee stand,

Like queenly nymphs from Fairy-land—

Enchantress of the flowery wand,

Most beauteous Isadore!




And when I bade the dream

Upon thy spirit flee,

Thy violet eyes to me

Upturned, did overflowing seem

With the deep, untold delight

Of Love’s serenity;

Thy classic brow, like lilies white

And pale as the Imperial Night

Upon her throne, with stars bedight,

Enthralled my soul to thee!




Ah I ever I behold

Thy dreamy, passionate eyes,

Blue as the languid skies


Hung with the sunset’s fringe of gold;

Now strangely clear thine image grows,

And olden memories

Are startled from their long repose

Like shadows on the silent snows

When suddenly the night-wind blows

Where quiet moonlight ties.




Like music heard in dreams,

Like strains of harps unknown,

Of birds forever flown

Audible as the voice of streams

That murmur in some leafy dell,

I hear thy gentlest tone,

And Silence cometh with her spell

Like that which on my tongue doth dwell,

When tremulous in dreams I tell

My love to thee alone!




In every valley heard,

Floating from tree to tree,

Less beautiful to, me,

The music of the radiant bird,

Than artless accents such as thine

Whose echoes never flee!

Ah! how for thy sweet voice I pine:—

For uttered in thy tones benign

(Enchantress!) this rude name of mine

"It always felt to me—a wrong"
The City in the Sea


Already reacted for this post.

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *