Edgar Allan Poe

(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849 / Boston)

The Sleeper - Poem by Edgar Allan Poe

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.
All Beauty sleeps!- and lo! where lies
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 fearfully-
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 solemn silentness!

The lady 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 she 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!
Far in the forest, dim and old,
For her may some tall vault unfold-
Some vault that oft has 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 ne'er shall force an echo more,
Thrilling to think, poor child of sin!
It was the dead who groaned within.

Comments about The Sleeper by Edgar Allan Poe

  • Gold Star - 36,330 Points * Sunprincess * (9/16/2015 3:37:00 PM)

    ....so imaginative and vivid ★ (Report) Reply

    2 person liked.
    1 person did not like.
  • Rookie - 261 Points Fred Scott (8/20/2015 6:44:00 PM)

    As usual Edgar is spooky in all his work but enjoyable! (Report) Reply

  • Bronze Star - 2,347 Points Mark Arvizu (9/8/2014 7:00:00 PM)

    always so macabre... Already Reported Reply

  • Rookie Angela Hoffman (6/14/2010 8:09:00 PM)

    Oh, lady dear, hast thou no fear?
    Why and what art thou dreaming here?
    ~I don't know why, but this is my favorite line throughout the whole poem. Beautiful. Already Reported Reply

Read all 4 comments »

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Read poems about / on: fog, june, childhood, sleep, family, tree, moon, child, beauty, fear, heaven, alone, rose, change, children, dream

Poem Submitted: Tuesday, December 31, 2002

Poem Edited: Thursday, January 19, 2012

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