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DREAMS. Edgar Allan Poe


     Oh! that my young life were a lasting dream!
     My spirit not awak’ning, till the beam
     Of an Eternity should bring the morrow:
     Yes! tho’ that long dream were of hopeless sorrow,
     ‘Twere better than the dull reality
     Of waking life to him whose heart shall be,
     And hath been ever, on the chilly earth,
     A chaos of deep passion from his birth!

     But should it be—that dream eternally
     Continuing—as dreams have been to me
     In my young boyhood—should it thus be given,
     ‘Twere folly still to hope for higher Heaven!
     For I have revell’d, when the sun was bright
     In the summer sky; in dreamy fields of light,
     And left unheedingly my very heart
     In climes of mine imagining—apart
     From mine own home, with beings that have been
     Of mine own thought—what more could I have seen?

     ‘Twas once & only once & the wild hour
     From my rememberance shall not pass—some power
     Or spell had bound me—‘twas the chilly wind
     Came o’er me in the night & left behind
     Its image on my spirit, or the moon
     Shone on my slumbers in her lofty noon
     Too coldly—or the stars—howe’er it was
     That dream was as that night wind—let it pass.

     I have been happy—tho’ but in a dream
     I have been happy—& I love the theme—
     Dreams! in their vivid colouring of life—
     As in that fleeting, shadowy, misty strife
     Of semblance with reality which brings
     To the delirious eye more lovely things
     Of Paradise & Love—& all our own!
     Than young Hope in his sunniest hour hath known.

         {From an earlier MS. Than in the book—ED.}

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