Fairyland (Poem by Edgar Allan Poe)

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Fairyland
By Edgar Allan Poe


Dim vales — and shadowy floods — 
And cloudy-looking woods,
Whose forms we can't discover
For the tears that drip all over
Huge moons there wax and wane — 
Again — again — again — 
Every moment of the night — 
Forever changing places — 
And they put out the star-light
With the breath from their pale faces.
About twelve by the moon-dial
One more filmy than the rest
(A kind which, upon trial,
They have found to be the best)
Comes down — still down — and down
With its centre on the crown
Of a mountain's eminence,
While its wide circumference
In easy drapery falls
Over hamlets, over halls,
Wherever they may be — 
O'er the strange woods — o'er the sea — 
Over spirits on the wing — 
Over every drowsy thing — 
And buries them up quite
In a labyrinth of light — 
And then, how deep! — O, deep!
Is the passion of their sleep.
In the morning they arise,
And their moony covering
Is soaring in the skies,
With the tempests as they toss,
Like — almost any thing — 
Or a yellow Albatross.
They use that moon no more
For the same end as before — 
Videlicet a tent — 
Which I think extravagant:
Its atomies, however,
Into a shower dissever,
Of which those butterflies,
Of Earth, who seek the skies,
And so come down again
(Never-contented thing!)
Have brought a specimen
Upon their quivering wings.

1831

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