По Эдгар Аллан
«Лирика»

That Nature loves the best for Beauty's grave

Lurk'd in each cornice, round each architrave

And every sculptur'd cherub thereabout

That from his marble dwelling peered out,

Seem'd earthly in the shadow of his niche

Achaian statues in a world so rich?

Friezes from Tadmor and Persepolis

From Balbec, and the stilly, clear abyss

Of beautiful Gomorrah! O, the wave

Is now upon thee - but too late to save!

Sound loves to revel in a summer night:

Witness the murmur of the grey twilight

That stole upon the ear, in Eyraco,

Of many a wild star-gazer long ago

That stealeth ever on the ear of him

Who, musing, gazeth on the distance dim.

And sees the darkness coming as a cloud

Is not its form - its voice - most palpable and loud?

But what is this? - it cometh - and it brings

A music with it - 'tis the rush of wings

A pause - and then a sweeping, falling strain

And Nesace is in her halls again.

From the wild energy of wanton haste

Her cheeks were flushing, and her lips apart;

And zone that clung around her gentle waist

Had burst beneath the heaving of her heart.

Within the centre of that hall to breathe

She paus'd and panted, Zanthe! all beneath,

The fairy light that kiss'd her golden hair

And long'd to rest, yet could but sparkle there!

Young flowers were whispering in melody

To happy flowers that night - and tree to tree;

Fountains were gushing music as they fell

In many a star-lit grove, or moon-lit dell;

Yet silence came upon material things

Fair flowers, bright waterfalls and angel wings

And sound alone that from the spirit sprang

Bore burthen to the charm the maiden sang:

"'Neath blue-bell or