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Edgar Allan Poe - IsrafelEdgar Allan Poe - Israfel
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In Heaven a spirit doth dwell         "Whose heart-strings are a lute";       None sing so wildly well       As the angel Israfel,       And the giddy stars (so legends tell),       Ceasing their hymns, attend the spell         Of his voice, all mute.       Tottering above         In her highest noon,         The enamored moon       Blushes with love,         While, to listen, the red levin         (With the rapid Pleiads, even,         Which were seven,)         Pauses in Heaven.       And they say (the starry choir         And the other listening things)       That Israfeli`s fire       Is owing to that lyre         By which he sits and sings-       The trembling living wire         Of those unusual strings.       But the skies that angel trod,         Where deep thoughts are a duty-       Where Love`s a grown-up God-         Where the Houri glances are       Imbued with all the beauty         Which we worship in a star.       Therefore thou art not wrong,         Israfeli, who despisest       An unimpassioned song;       To thee the laurels belong,         Best bard, because the wisest!       Merrily live, and long!       The ecstasies above         With thy burning measures suit-       Thy grief, thy joy, thy hate, thy love,         With the fervor of thy lute-         Well may the stars be mute!       Yes, Heaven is thine; but this         Is a world of sweets and sours;         Our flowers are merely- flowers,       And the shadow of thy perfect bliss         Is the sunshine of ours.       If I could dwell       Where Israfel         Hath dwelt, and he where I,       He might not sing so wildly well         A mortal melody,       While a bolder note than this might swell       From my lyre within the sky.
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