Poe Songs

How shall the burial rite be read?
The solemn song be sung?
The requiem for the loveliest dead,
That ever died so young?
 
Her friends are gazing on her,
And on her gaudy bier,
And weep! -- oh! to dishonour
Dead beauty with a tear!
 
They loved her for her wealth --
And they hated her for her pride --
But she grew in feeble health,
And they love her -- that she died.
 
They tell me (while they speak
Of her "costly broider'd pall")
That my voice is growing weak --
That I should not sing at all --
 
Or, that my tone should be
Tun'd to such solemn song
So mournfully -- so mournfully,
That the dead may feel no wrong.
 
But she gone above,
With young Hope at her side,
And I am drunk with love
Of the dead, who is my bride --
 
Of the dead -- dead who lies
All perfum'd there,
With the death upon her eyes,
And the life upon her hair.
 
Thus on the coffin loud and long
I strike -- the murmur sent
Through the grey chambers to my song
Shall be accompaniment.
 
Thou diedst in thy life's June --
But thou didst not die too fair:
Thou didst not die to soon,
Nor with too calm an air.
 
From more than friends on earth,
Thy life and love are riven,
To join the untained mirth
Of more than thrones in heaven --
 
Therefore to thee this night
I will requiem raise,
But waft thee on thy flight
With Paen of old days.

So sweet the hour, so calm the time
I feel it more than half a crime,
When Nature sleeps and stars are mute,
To mar the silence ev'n with lute.
At rest on ocean's brilliant dyes
An image of Elysium lies:
Seven Pleiades entranced in Heaven
Form in the deep another seven:
Endymion nodding from above
Sees in the sea a second love.
Within the valleys dim and brown,
And on the spectral mountain's crown,
The wearied light is dying down,
And earth, and stars, and sea, and sky
Are redolent of sleep, as I
Am of thee and thine
Enthralling love, my Adeline.
But list, O list, - so soft and low
Thy lover's voice tonight shall flow,
That, scarce awake, thy soul shall deem
My words the music of a dream.
Thus, while no single sound too rude
Upon thy slumber shall intrude,
Our thoughts, our souls -- O God above!
In every deed shall mingle, love.