Thursday, August 28, 2014
Sunday, July 13, 2014
Sunday, January 26, 2014
The skies they were ashen and sober;
(Edgar Allan Poe)
The leaves they were crisped and sere —
The leaves they were withering in sere;
It was night in the lonesome October
Of my most immemorial year;
It was hard by the dim lake of Auber,
In the misty mid region of Weir —
It was down by the dank tarn of Auber,
In the ghoul-haunted woodland of Weir.
And we passed to the end of the vista,
But we were stopped by the door of a tomb —
By the door of a legended tomb;
And I said: "What is written, sweet sister,
On the door of this legended tomb ?"
Etait-ce un mirage,
Ou était-ce le visage de la mort ?
Then my heart it grew ashen and sober
As the leaves, that were crisped and sere —
As the leaves that were withering and sere,
And I cried: "It was surely October
On this very night of last year
That I brought a dread burden down here —
That I journeyed — I journeyed down here —
On this night of all nights in the year,
Ah, what demon has tempted me here ?
Well I know, now, this dim lake of Auber —
This misty mid region of Weir —
Well I know, now, this dank tarn of Auber,
This ghoul-haunted woodland of Weir."