Edgar Allan Poe. To One In Paradise

Thou wast that all to me, love,
      For which my soul did pine -
A green isle in the sea, love,
      A fountain and a shrine,
All wreathed with fairy fruits and flowers,
      And all the flowers were mine.

Ah, dream too bright to last!
      Ah, starry Hope! that didst arise
But to be overcast!
      A voice from out the Future cries,
"On! on!" - but o'er the Past
      (Dim gulf!) my spirit hovering lies
Mute, motionless, aghast!

For, alas! alas! with me
      The light of Life is o'er!
      No more - no more - no more -
(Such language holds the solemn sea
      To the sands upon the shore)
Shall bloom the thunder-blasted tree,
      Or the stricken eagle soar!

And all my days are trances,
      And all my nightly dreams
Are where thy grey eye glances,
      And where thy footstep gleams -
In what ethereal dances,
      By what Italian streams.

Alas! for that accursed time
      They bore thee o'er the billow
From me - to titled age and crime
      And an unholy pillow -
From Love and from our misty clime
      Where weeps the silver willow.