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Edgar Allan Poe (19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849 / Boston)
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A Dream Within A Dream
Take this kiss upon the brow!
And, in parting from you now,
Thus much let me avow-
You are not wrong, who deem
That my days have been a dream;
Yet if hope has flown away
In a night, or in a day,
In a vision, or in none,
Is it therefore the less gone?
All that we see or seem
Is but a dream within a dream.
I stand amid the roar
Of a surf-tormented shore,
And I hold within my hand
Grains of the golden sand-
How few! yet how they creep
Through my fingers to the deep,
While I weep- while I weep!
O God! can I not grasp
Them with a tighter clasp?
O God! can I not save
One from the pitiless wave?
Is all that we see or seem
But a dream within a dream?
Read poems about / on: dream, kiss, hope, god, night
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I love this. It is the type of poem that sends shivers down my spine and then lingers there throughout the day.
beautiful, intoxicating indeed
I LOVE this poem! ! Last 2 lines are my favourite xx
Brilliant. I've always loved the way this man portrayed his turmoiled thoughts within his poetry. I love it.
This poem is kind of confusing at first, but it is also very deep. I love how it really makes you think about its meaning.
ello mate the yowie got me
Poe was not just a master of the macabre, but this expression of existential angst made him an artist ahead of his times.
Another amazing poetic way of referring to the concept of a dream within a dream:
Sueña Alonso Quijano
El hombre se despierta de un incierto
sueño de alfanjes y de campo llano
y se toca la barba con la mano
y se pregunta si está herido o muerto.
¿No lo perseguirán los hechiceros
que han jurado su mal bajo la luna?
Nada. Apenas el frío. Apenas una
dolencia de sus años postrimeros.
El hidalgo fue un sueño de Cervantes
y don Quijote un sueño del hidalgo.
El doble sueño se confunde y algo
está pasando que pasó mucho antes.
Quijano duerme y sueña. Una batalla:
los mares de Lepanto y la metralla.
Jorge Luis Borges (La rosa profunda) .
Edgar Allan Poe
Pompas del mármol, negra anatomía
que ultrajan los gusanos sepulcrales,
del triunfo de la muerte los glaciales
símbolos congregó. No los temía.
Temía la sombra, la amorosa,
las comunes venturas de la gente;
no lo cegó el metal resplandeciente
ni el mármol sepulcral sino la rosa.
Como del otro lado del espejo
se entregó solitario a su complejo
destino de inventor de pesadillas.
Quizá, del otro lado de la muerte,
siga erigiendo solitario y fuerte
espléndidas y atroces maravillas.
Jorge Luis Borges (El otro, el mismo) .
Perhaps my favorite right now, excellent stuff.