Wednesday, 21 October 2015

Dikt; Dream-Land av Edgar Allan Poe

  By a route obscure and lonely,
  Haunted by ill angels only,
  Where an Eidolon, named Night,
  On a black throne reigns upright,
  I have reached these lands but newly
  From an ultimate dim Thule —
From a wild weird clime, that lieth, sublime,
      Out of Space — out of Time.

  Bottomless vales and boundless floods,
  And chasms, and caves, and Titian woods,
  With forms that no man can discover
  For the dews that drip all over;
  Mountains toppling evermore
  Into seas without a shore;
  Seas that restlessly aspire,
  Surging, unto skies of fire;
  Lakes that endlessly outspread
  Their lone waters, lone and dead, —
  Their still waters, still and chilly
  With the snows of the lolling lily.

  By a route obscure and lonely,
  Haunted by ill angels only,
  Where an Eidolon, named Night,
  On a black throne reigns upright,
  I have reached these lands but newly
  From an ultimate dim Thule.

  By the lakes that thus outspread
  Their lone waters, lone and dead, —
  Their sad waters, sad and chilly
  With the snows of the lolling lily, —
  By the mountains — near the river
  Murmuring lowly, murmuring ever, —
  By the gray woods, — by the swamp
  Where the toad and the newt encamp, —
  By the dismal tarns and pools
      Where dwell the Ghouls, —
  By each spot the most unholy —
  In each nook most melancholy, —
  There the traveller meets aghast
  Sheeted Memories of the Past —
  Shrouded forms that start and sigh
  As they pass the wanderer by —
  White-robed forms of friends long given,
  In agony, to the worms, and Heaven.

  By a route obscure and lonely,
  Haunted by ill angels only,
  Where an Eidolon, named Night,
  On a black throne reigns upright,
  I have reached these lands but newly
  From an ultimate dim Thule —

  For the heart whose woes are legion
  ’T is a peaceful, soothing region —
  For the spirit that walks in shadow
  ’T is — oh ’t is an Eldorado!
  But the traveler, traveling through it,
  May not — dare not openly view it;
  Never its mysteries are exposed
  To the weak human eye unclosed;
  So wills its King, who hath forbid
  The uplifting of the fringéd lid;
  And thus the sad Soul that here passes
  Beholds it but through darkened glasses.

  By a route obscure and lonely,
  Haunted by ill angels only,
  Where an Eidolon, named Night,
  On a black throne reigns upright,
  I have wandered home but newly
  From this ultimate dim Thule.

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