Near my bed, there, hangs the picture, jewels could not buy from me:
'Tis a Siren, a fair Siren, in her sea-weed drapery,
Playing on a lute of amber, by the margin of a sea!

In the east, the rose of morning biddeth fair to blossom soon,
But it never, never blossoms, in this picture ; and the moon
Never ceases to be crescent, and the June is always June !

And the heavy-branched banana never yields its creamy fruit;
In the citron-trees are nightingales forever stricken mute;
And the Siren sits, her fingers on the pulses of her lute!

In the hushes of the midnight, when my heliotropes grow strong
With the dampness, I hear music -- hear a quiet, plaintive song --
A most sad, melodious utterance, as of some immortal wrong --

Like the pleading, oft repeated, of a Soul that pleads in vain,
Of a damnèd Soul repentant, that cannot be pure again! --
And I lie awake and listen, with an agony of brain!

O, the mystical, wild music ! how it melts into the white
Of the moon that turns the sombre, brooding shadows into light!
How it sobs itself to slumber in the quiets of the night!

And whence comes this mournful music ? -- whence, unless it chance to be
From the Siren, the sad Siren, in her sea-weed drapery,
Playing on a lute of amber, by the margin of a sea!