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Upon the upturned faces of a thousand
Roses that grew in an enchanted garden,
Where no wind dared to stir, unless on tiptoe-
Fell on the upturned faces of these roses,
That gave out, in return for the love-light,
Their odorous souls in an ecstatic death-
Fell on the upturned faces of these roses,
That smiled and died in this parterre, enchanted
By thee and by the poetry of thy presence.

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Clad all in white, upon a violet bank
I saw thee half reclining; while the moon
Fell on the upturned faces of the roses,
And on thine own, upturn'd, alas, in sorrow!

III.

Was it not Fate that, on this July midnight -
Was it not Fate (whose name is also Sorrow)
That bade me pause before that garden-gate,
To breathe the incense of those slumbering roses?
No footstep stirred: the hated world all slept,
Save only thee and me-(0 Heaven ! O God!
How my heart beats in coupling those two words !)
Save only thee and me. I paused—I looked —

And in an instant all things disappeared.
(Ah, bear in mind this garden was enchanted :)
The pearly lustre of the moon went out;
The mossy banks and the meandering paths,
The happy flowers and the refining trees,
Were seen no more; the very roses' odours
Died in the arms of the adoring airs.
All-- all expired save thee-save less than thou:
Save only the divine light in thine eyes-
Save but the soul in thine uplifted eyes.
I saw but them—they were the world to me;
I saw but them-saw only them for hours-
Saw only them until the moon went down.
What wild heart-histories seemed to lie enwritten
Upon those crystalline, celestial spheres !
How dark a woe! yet how sublime a hope !
How silently serene a sea of pride !
How daring an ambition ! yet how deep,
How fathomless a capacity for love !

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But now, at length, dear Dian sank from sight
Into a western couch of thunder-cloud;
And thou, a ghost, amid the entombing trees
Didst glide away. Only thine eyes remained.
They would not go—they never yet have gone.
Lighting my lonely pathway home that night.

They have not left me (as my hopes have) since. They follow me—they lead me through the years. They are my ministers-yet I their slave. Their office is to illumine and enkindleMy duty, to be saved by their bright light, And purified in their electric fire, And sanctified in their elysian fire. They fill my soul with beauty (which is hope), And are far up in heaven—the stars I kneel to In the sad silent watches of my night; While even in the meridian glare of day I see them still —two sweetly scintillant Venuses, unextinguished by the sun !

TO MY MOTHER.*

BECAUSE I feel that in the heavens above

The angels, whispering to one another, Can find among their burning terms of love,

None so devotional as that of “mother," Therefore by that dear name I long have called you

You, who are more than mother unto me,
And fill my heart of hearts, where Death installed you

In setting my Virginia's spirit free.
My mother—my own mother, who died early-

Was but the mother of myself; but you
Are mother to the one I love so dearly,

And thus are dearer than the mother I knew
By that affinity with which my wife
Was dearer to my soul than its soul-life.

* Addressed to a lady who well deserved that name from Poe- MARIA CLEMM, his mother-in-law. See Willis's Hurry Graphs. – ED.

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HEAR the sledges with the bells

Silver bells ! What a world of merriment their melody foretells !

How they tinkle, tinkle, tinkle,

In the icy air of night!

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