To One in Paradise

Edgar Allan Poe (1809–1849)

THOU wast all that to me, love,

For which my soul did pine:

A green isle in the sea, love,

A fountain and a shrine

All wreathed with fairy fruits and flowers,

And all the flowers were mine.

Ah, dream too bright to last!

Ah, starry Hope, that didst arise

But to be overcast!

A voice from out the Future cries,

“On! on!”—but o’er the Past

(Dim gulf!) my spirit hovering lies

Mute, motionless, aghast.

For, alas! alas! with me

The light of Life is o’er!

No more—no more—no more—

(Such language holds the solemn sea

To the sands upon the shore)

Shall bloom the thunder-blasted tree,

Or the stricken eagle soar.

And all my days are trances,

And all my nightly dreams

Are where thy gray eye glances,

And where thy footstep gleams—

In what ethereal dances,

By what eternal streams.