歌词
At midnight in the month of June
I stand beneath the mystic moon
An opiate vapor dewy dim
Exhales from out her golden rim
And softly dripping drop by drop
Upon the quiet mountain top
Steals drowsily and musically
Into the universal valley
The rosemary nods upon the grave
The lily lolls upon the wave
Wrapping the fog about its breast
The ruin molders into rest
Looking like Lethe see! the lake
A conscious slumber seems to take
And would not for the world awake
And would not for the world awake
All Beauty sleeps!- and lo! where lies
the skace men dou ben till the sky
Irene with her Destinies!
O lady bright! can it be right-
This window open to the night
The wanton airs from the tree-top
Laughingly through the lattice drop-
The bodiless airs a wizard rout
Flit through thy chamber in and out
And wave the curtain canopy
So fitfully- so cearfully-
Above the closed and fringed lid
''Neath which thy slumb′′ring soul lies hid
That o′′er the floor and down the wall
Like ghosts the shadows rise and fall!
Oh lady dear hast thou no fear
Why and what art thou dreaming here
Sure thou art come O′′er far-off seas
A wonder to these garden trees!
Strange is thy pallor! strange thy dress
Strange above all thy length of tress
And this all this
And this all solemn silentness!
My lover sleeps! Oh may her sleep
Which is enduring so be deep!
Heaven have her in its sacred keep!
This chamber changed for one more holy
This bed for one more melancholy
I pray to God that he may lie
For ever with unopened eye
While the pale sheeted ghosts go by!
My love she sleeps! Oh may her sleep
As it is lasting so be deep!
Soft may the worms about her creep!
May the worms about her creep!
My love she sleeps! Oh may her sleep
As it is lasting so be deep!
Soft may the worms about her creep!
May the worms about her creep!
Far in the forest dim and old
For her may some tall vault unfold-
Some vault that of the flung its black
And winged panels fluttering back
Triumphant o′′er the crested palls
Of her grand family funerals-
Some sepulchre remote alone
Against whose portal she hath thrown
In childhood many an idle stone-
Some tomb from out whose sounding door
She never shall force an echo more
Thrilling to think poor child of sin!
It was the dead who groaned within