 | Art and Fashion |  |
136
NEVERMORE.
Whither, spirit, whither?
Let me weep alone:
Wherefore bring me hither,
Knowing she is gone?
All that was Elysian
With herself hath flown;
Tears are in the vision
Of that shrine o'erthrown.
Let me weep alone:
Wherefore bring me hither,
Knowing she is gone?
All that was Elysian
With herself hath flown;
Tears are in the vision
Of that shrine o'erthrown.
Do the roses whisper
Sweet, as she were nigh?
Do the linnets warble
Music, like her sigh?
Neither rose nor linnet
Can the charm restore;
Life hath but one language,
One sad word—“Deplore!”
Sweet, as she were nigh?
Do the linnets warble
Music, like her sigh?
Neither rose nor linnet
Can the charm restore;
Life hath but one language,
One sad word—“Deplore!”
137
Just as he that dreameth
Starts, and wakes in tears,
So the present seemeth
Girt with doubts and fears:
Still, 'mid hopes that wither,
Sorrow liveth on:
Wherefore bring me hither,
Knowing she is gone?
Starts, and wakes in tears,
So the present seemeth
Girt with doubts and fears:
Still, 'mid hopes that wither,
Sorrow liveth on:
Wherefore bring me hither,
Knowing she is gone?
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