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As dew of the night-time, o'er the summer grass?

III

Doth o'er us pass, when, as th' expanding eye

To the loved object-so the tear to the lid

Will start, which lately slept in apathy?

And yet it need not be—(that object) hid

From us in life-but common-which doth lie

Each hour before us—but then only bid

With a strange sound, as of a harp-string broken

T' awake us—'Tis a symbol and a token

IV

Of what in other worlds shall be—and given

In beauty by our God, to those alone

Who otherwise would fall from life and Heaven

Drawn by their heart's passion, and that tone,

That high tone of the spirit which hath striven

Though not with Faith-with godliness—whose throne

With desperate energy 't hath beaten down;

Wearing its own deep feeling as a crown.

* Query "fervor"?—ED.

A PÆAN.

I.

How shall the burial rite be read?

The solemn song be sung?

The requiem for the loveliest dead,

That ever died so young?

II.

Her friends are gazing on her,

And on her gaudy bier,

And weep!—oh! to dishonor

Dead beauty with a tear!

III.

They loved her for her wealth—

And they hated her for her pride—

But she grew in feeble health,

And they love her—that she died.

IV.

They tell me (while they speak

Of her "costly broider'd pall")

That my voice is growing weak—

That I should not sing at all—

V.

Or that my tone should be

Tun'd to such solemn song

So mournfully—so mournfully,

That the dead may feel no wrong.

VI.

But she is gone above,

With young Hope at her side,

And I am drunk with love

Of the dead, who is my bride.—

VII.

Of the dead—dead who lies

All perfum'd there,

With the death upon her eyes,

And the life upon her hair.

VIII.

Thus on the coffin loud and long

I strike—the murmur sent

Through the grey chambers to my song,

Shall be the accompaniment.

IX.

Thou died'st in thy life's June—

But thou did'st not die too fair:

Thou did'st not die too soon,

Nor with too calm an air.

X.

From more than fiends on earth,

Thy life and love are riven,

To join the untainted mirth

Of more than thrones in heaven—

XII.

Therefore, to thee this night

I will no requiem raise,

But waft thee on thy flight,

With a Pæan of old days.

TO MARGARET

This may be an unfinished poem, never published in Poe's lifetime. In the original manuscript, dated 1827, Poe makes references to classical works in each of his lines. The seven-line poem, according to Poe's notes, refers to John Milton's Paradise Lost, William Shakespeare and Alexander Pope.

Who hath seduced thee to this foul revolt

From the pure well of Beauty undefiled?

So banish from true wisdom to prefer

Such squalid wit to honourable rhyme?

To write? To scribble? Nonsense and no more?

I will not write upon this argument

To write is human -- not to write divine.

ALONE

This 22-line poem was composed in 1829 and left untitled and unpublished during Poe’s lifetime. The original manuscript was signed "E. A. Poe" and dated March 17, 1829. In February of that year, Poe's foster mother Francis Allan had died. In September 1875, the poem, which had been in the possession of a family in Baltimore, was published with its title in Scribner's Monthly. The editor, E. L. Didier, also reproduced a facsimile of the manuscript, though he admitted he added the date himself. Alone is often interpreted as autobiographical, expressing the author's feelings of isolation and inner torment. Poet Daniel Hoffman believed Alone was evidence that "Poe really was a haunted man.” The poem, however, is an introspective about Poe's youth, written when he was only 20 years old.

From childhood's hour I have not been

As others were — I have not seen

As others saw — I could not bring

My passions from a common spring —

From the same source I have not taken

My sorrow — I could not awaken

My heart to joy at the same tone —

And all I lov'd — I lov'd alone —

Then — in my childhood — in the dawn

Of a most stormy life — was drawn

From ev'ry depth of good and ill

The mystery which binds me still —

From the