And now as the night was senescent
    And star-dials pointed to morn—­
    As the sun-dials hinted of morn—­
  At the end of our path a liquescent
    And nebulous lustre was born,
  Out of which a miraculous crescent
    Arose with a duplicate horn—­
  Astarte’s bediamonded crescent
    Distinct with its duplicate horn.

  And I said—­“She is warmer than Dian: 
    She rolls through an ether of sighs—­
    She revels in a region of sighs: 
  She has seen that the tears are not dry on
    These cheeks, where the worm never dies,
  And has come past the stars of the Lion
    To point us the path to the skies—­
    To the Lethean peace of the skies—­
  Come up, in despite of the Lion,
    To shine on us with her bright eyes—­
  Come up through the lair of the Lion,
    With love in her luminous eyes.”

  But Psyche, uplifting her finger,
    Said—­“Sadly this star I mistrust—­
    Her pallor I strangely mistrust:—­
  Oh, hasten!—­oh, let us not linger! 
    Oh, fly!—­let us fly!—­for we must.” 
  In terror she spoke, letting sink her
    Wings till they trailed in the dust—­
  In agony sobbed, letting sink her
    Plumes till they trailed in the dust—­
    Till they sorrowfully trailed in the dust.

  I replied—­“This is nothing but dreaming: 
    Let us on by this tremulous light! 
    Let us bathe in this crystalline light! 
  Its Sibyllic splendor is beaming
    With Hope and in Beauty to-night:—­
    See!—­it flickers up the sky through the night! 
  Ah, we safely may trust to its gleaming,
    And be sure it will lead us aright—­
  We safely may trust to a gleaming
    That cannot but guide us aright,
    Since it flickers up to Heaven through the night.”

  Thus I pacified Psyche and kissed her,
    And tempted her out of her gloom—­
    And conquered her scruples and gloom;
  And we passed to the end of a vista,
    But were stopped by the door of a tomb—­
    By the door of a legended tomb;
  And I said—­“What is written, sweet sister,
    On the door of this legended tomb?”
    She replied—­“Ulalume—­Ulalume—­
    ’Tis the vault of thy lost Ulalume!”

  Then my heart it grew ashen and sober
    As the leaves that were crisped and sere—­
    As the leaves that were withering and sere;
  And I cried—­“It was surely October
    On this very night of last year
    That I journeyed—­I journeyed down here—­
    That I brought a dread burden down here! 
    On this night of all nights in the year,
    Ah, what demon has tempted me here? 
  Well I know, now, this dim lake of Auber—­
    This misty mid region of Weir—­
  Well I know, now, this dank tarn of Auber,—­
    This ghoul-haunted woodland of Weir.”

1847.

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