THE VALLEY NIS.
BY E. A. POE.
| Far away—far away— Far away—as far at least Lies that valley as the day Down within the golden East— All things lovely—are not they One and all, too far away? It is called the valley Nis: And a Syriac tale there is Thereabout which Time hath said Shall not be interpreted: Something about Satan's dart Something about angel wings— Much about a broken heart— All about unhappy things: But "the valley Nis" at best Means "the valley of unrest." Once it smil'd a silent dell Where the people did not dwell, Having gone unto the wars— And the sly, mysterious stars, With a visage full of meaning, O'er th' unguarded flowers were leaning, Or the sun-ray dripp'd all red Thro' tall tulips overhead, Then grew paler as it fell On the quiet Asphodel. Now each visiter shall confess Nothing there is motionless: Nothing save the airs that brood O'er the enchanted solitude, Save the airs with pinions furled That slumber o'er that valley-world. No wind in Heaven, and lo! the trees Do roll like seas, in Northern breeze, Around the stormy Hebrides— No wind in Heaven, and clouds do fly, Rustling everlastingly, Thro' the terror-stricken sky, Rolling, like a waterfall, O'er th' horizon's fiery wall— And Helen, like thy human eye, Low crouched on Earth, some violets lie, And, nearer Heaven, some lilies wave All banner-like, above a grave. And one by one, from out their tops Eternal dews come down in drops, Ah, one by one, from off their stems Eternal dews come down in gems! |