RAVINGS.
(BY E., A POE-T)
The autumn upon us was rushing,
The Parks were deserted and lone—
The streets were unpeopled and lone;
My foot through the sere leaves was brushing,
That over the pathway were strown—
By the wind in its wanderings strown.
I sighed—for my feelings were gushing
Round Mnemosyne's porphyry throne,
Like lava liquescent lay gushing,
And rose to the porphyry throne—
To the filigree footstool were gushing,
That stands on the steps of that throne—
On the stolid stone steps of that throne!
I cried—'Shall the winter-leaves fret us?'
Oh, turn—we must turn to the fruit,
To the freshness and force of the fruit!
To the gifts wherewith Autumn has met us—
Her music that never grows mute
(That maunders but never grows mute),
The tendrils the vine branches net us,
The lily, the lettuce, the lute—
The esculent, succulent lettuce,
And the languishing lily, and lute;—
Yes;—the lotos-like leaves of the lettuce;
Late lily and lingering lute.
Then come—let us fly from the city!
Let us travel in orient isles—
In the purple of orient isles—
Oh, bear me—yes, bear me in pity
To climes where a sun ever smiles—
Ever smoothly and speciously smiles!
Where the swarth-browed Arabian's wild ditty
Enhances pyramidal piles:
Where his wild, weird, and wonderful ditty
Awakens pyramidal piles—
Yes:—his pointless perpetual ditty
Perplexes pyramidal piles!