Edgar Allan Poe – Irene

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’T is now (so sings the soaring moon)
Midnight in the sweet month of June,
When winged visions love to lie
Lazily upon beauty’s eye…”
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“Irene” is a poem written by Edgar Allan Poe. It was first published in 1831 as part of the volume Poems. It was later revised into the poem “The Sleeper”.

This article features complete, embedded, mobile-friendly version of both “Irene and “The Sleeper” by Edgar Allan Poe as well as text versions below.

“Irene” and “The Sleeper” – PDF

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Irene – Mobile Friendly

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Irene

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’T is now (so sings the soaring moon)
Midnight in the sweet month of June,
When winged visions love to lie
Lazily upon beauty’s eye,
Or worse — upon her brow to dance
In panoply of old romance,
Till thoughts and locks are left, alas!
A ne’er-to-be untangled mass.

An influence dewy, drowsy, dim,
Is dripping from that golden rim;
Grey towers are mouldering into rest,
Wrapping the fog around their breast:
Looking like Lethe, see! the lake
A conscious slumber seems to take,
And would not for the world awake:
The rosemary sleeps upon the grave —
The lily lolls upon the wave —
And [[a]] million bright pines to and fro,
Are rocking lullabies as they go,
To the lone oak that reels with bliss,
Nodding above the dim abyss.

All beauty sleeps: and lo! where lies
With casement open to the skies,
Irene, with her destinies!
Thus hums the moon within her ear,
“O lady sweet! how camest thou here?
“Strange are thine eyelids — strange thy dress!
“And strange thy glorious length of tress!
“Sure thou art come o’er far-off seas,
“A wonder to our desert trees!
“Some gentle wind hath thought it right
“To open thy window to the night,
“And wanton airs from the tree-top,
“Laughingly thro’ the lattice drop,
“And wave this crimson canopy,
“Like a banner o’er thy dreaming eye!
“Lady, awake! lady awake!
“For the holy Jesus’ sake!
“For strangely — fearfully in this hall
“My tinted shadows rise and fall!”

The lady sleeps: the dead all sleep —
At least as long as Love doth weep:
Entranc’d, the spirit loves to lie
As long as — tears on Memory’s eye:
But when a week or two go by,
And the light laughter chokes the sigh,
Indignant from the tomb doth take
Its way to some remember’d lake,
Where oft — in life — with friends — it went
To bathe in the pure element,
And there, from the untrodden grass,
Wreathing for its transparent brow
Those flowers that say (ah hear them now!)
To the night-winds as they pass,
“Ai! ai! alas! — alas!”
Pores for a moment, ere it go,
On the clear waters there that flow,
Then sinks within (weigh’d down by wo)
Th’ uncertain, shadowy heaven below.

* * * * * *

The lady sleeps: oh! may her sleep
As it is lasting so be deep —
No icy worms about her creep:
I pray to God that she may lie
Forever with as calm an eye,
That chamber chang’d for one more holy —
That bed for one more melancholy.

Far in the forest, dim and old,
For her may some tall vault unfold,
Against whose sounding door she hath thrown,
In childhood, many an idle stone —
Some tomb, which oft hath flung its black
And vampyre-winged pannels back,
Flutt’ring triumphant o’er the palls
Of her old family funerals.

The Sleeper

I.

At midnight, in the month of June,
I stand beneath the mystic moon.
An opiate vapor, dewy, dim,
Exhales from out her golden rim,
And, softly dripping, drop by drop,
Upon the quiet mountain-top,
Steals drowsily and musically
Into the universal valley.
The rosemary nods upon the grave;
The lily lolls upon the wave;
Wrapping the mist about their breast
Grey towers are mouldering into rest;
Looking like Lethé, see! the lake
A conscious slumber seems to take,
And would not for the world awake.
All beauty sleeps! — and lo! where lies,
With casement open to the skies,
Irené and her destinies!

II.

O, lady bright! can it be right —
This lattice open to the night?
The bodiless airs, a wizard rout,
Flit through thy chamber in and out,
And wave the curtain canopy
So fitfully, so fearfully,
Above the closed and fringéd lid
’Neath which thy slumbering soul lies hid,
That o’er the floor and down the wall
Like ghosts the shadows rise and fall.
O, lady dear! hast thou no fear?
Why and what art thou dreaming here?
Sure thou art come o’er far-off seas
A wonder to these garden trees!
Strange is thy pallor — strange thy dress —
Strange thy glorious length of tress,
And thine all solemn silentness!

III.

The lady sleeps. Oh may her sleep,
Which is enduring, so be deep!
Heaven have her in its sacred keep!
This bed being changed for one more holy,
This room for one more melancholy,
I pray to God that she may lie
Forever with uncloséd eye!
My love, she sleeps. Oh, may her sleep,
As it is lasting, so be deep!
Soft may the worms about her creep!
Far in the forest dim and old
For her may some tall tomb unfold —
Some tomb that oft hath flung its black
And wing-like pannels, fluttering back
Triumphant o’er the crested palls
Of her grand family funerals —
Some vault, all haughtily alone,
Against whose portal she hath thrown
In childhood many an idle stone —
From out whose hollow-sounding door
She ne’er shall force an echo more,
Nor thrill to think, poor child of sin!
It was the dead who groaned within.