Edgar Allan Poe

            By a route obscure and lonely,
            Haunted by ill angels only,
            Where an Eidolon, named NIGHT,
            On a black throne reigns upright,
            I have reached these lands but newly
            From an ultimate dim Thule-
            From a wild clime that lieth, sublime,
               Out of SPACE- out of TIME.

            Bottomless vales and boundless floods,
            And chasms, and caves, and Titan woods,
            With forms that no man can discover
            For the tears that drip all over;
            Mountains toppling evermore
            Into seas without a shore;
            Seas that restlessly aspire,
            Surging, unto skies of fire;
            Lakes that endlessly outspread
            Their lone waters- lone and dead,-
            Their still waters- still and chilly
            With the snows of the lolling lily.

            By the lakes that thus outspread
            Their lone waters, lone and dead,-
            Their sad waters, sad and chilly
            With the snows of the lolling lily,-
            By the mountains- near the river
            Murmuring lowly, murmuring ever,-
            By the grey woods,- by the swamp
            Where the toad and the newt encamp-
            By the dismal tarns and pools
               Where dwell the Ghouls,-
            By each spot the most unholy-
            In each nook most melancholy-
            There the traveller meets aghast
            Sheeted Memories of the Past-
            Shrouded forms that start and sigh
            As they pass the wanderer by-
            White-robed forms of friends long given,
            In agony, to the Earth- and Heaven.

            For the heart whose woes are legion
            'Tis a peaceful, soothing region-
            For the spirit that walks in shadow
            'Tis- oh, 'tis an Eldorado!
            But the traveller, travelling through it,
            May not- dare not openly view it!
            Never its mysteries are exposed
            To the weak human eye unclosed;
            So wills its King, who hath forbid
            The uplifting of the fringed lid;
            And thus the sad Soul that here passes
            Beholds it but through darkened glasses.

            By a route obscure and lonely,
            Haunted by ill angels only,
            Where an Eidolon, named NIGHT,
            On a black throne reigns upright,
            I have wandered home but newly
            From this ultimate dim Thule.