There. Silence, thoughtful God, who loves
The neighborhood of death in groves
Of asphodel lies hid and weaves
His hushing spell among the leaves--
Nor ever noise disturbs the air
Save the low, humming, mournful sound
Of priests within their shrines at prayer
For the fresh Dead entombed around.
'Twas toward this place of death--in mood
Made up of thoughts, half bright, half dark--
I now across the shining flood
Unconscious turned my light-winged bark.
The form of that young maid in all
Its beauty was before me still;
And oft I thought, if thus to call
Her image to my mind at will,
If but the memory of that one
Bright look of hers for ever gone,
Was to my heart worth all the rest
Of woman-kind, beheld, possest--
What would it be if wholly mine,
Within these arms as in a shrine,
Hallowed by Love, I saw her shine--
An idol, worshipt by the light
Of her own beauties, day and night--
If 'twas a blessing but to see
And lose again, what would _this_ be?
In thoughts like these--but often crost
By darker threads--my mind was lost,
Till near that City of the Dead,
Waked from my trance, I saw o'erhead--
As if by some enchanter bid
Suddenly from the wave to rise--
Pyramid over pyramid
Tower in succession to the skies;
While one, aspiring, as if soon,
'Twould touch the heavens, rose over all;
And, on its summit, the white moon
Rested as on a pedestal!
The silence of the lonely tombs
And temples round where naught was heard
But the high palm-tree's tufted plumes,
Shaken at times by breeze or bird,
Formed a deep contrast to the scene
Of revel where I late had been;
To those gay sounds that still came o'er,
Faintly from many a distant shore,
And the unnumbered lights that shone
Far o'er the flood from Memphis on
To the Moon's Isle and Babylon.
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