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作曲 : Anna-Varney Cantodea |
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作词 : Edgar Allan Poe |
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At midnight,in the month of June, |
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I stand beneath the mystic moon. |
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An opiate vapor,dewy,dim, |
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Exhales from out her golden rim, |
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And,softly dripping,drop by drop, |
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Upon the quiet mountain top, |
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Steals drowsily and musically |
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Into the universal valley, |
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The rosemary nods upon the grave; |
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The lily lolls upon the wave; |
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Wrapping the fog about its breast, |
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The ruin molders into rest; |
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Looking like Lethe,see!the lake |
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A conscious slumber seems to take, |
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And would not,for the world,awake. |
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And would not,for the world,awake. |
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All Beauty sleeps!-and lo!where lies |
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the skace men dou ben till the sky. |
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Irene,with her Destinies! |
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O,lady bright!can it be right- |
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This window open to the night? |
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The wanton airs,from the tree-top, |
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Laughingly through the lattice drop- |
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The bodiless airs,a wizard rout, |
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Flit through thy chamber in and out, |
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And wave the curtain canopy |
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So fitfully-so cearfully- |
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Above the closed and fringed lid |
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''Neath which thy slumb ′′ring soul lies hid, |
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That,o ′′er the floor and down the wall, |
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Like ghosts the shadows rise and fall! |
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Oh,lady dear,hast thou no fear? |
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Why and what art thou dreaming here? |
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Sure thou art come O ′′er far-off seas, |
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A wonder to these garden trees! |
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Strange is thy pallor!strange thy dress, |
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Strange,above all,thy length of tress, |
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And this all this |
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And this all solemn silentness! |
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My lover sleeps!Oh,may her sleep, |
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Which is enduring,so be deep! |
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Heaven have her in its sacred keep! |
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This chamber changed for one more holy, |
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This bed for one more melancholy, |
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I pray to God that he may lie |
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For ever with unopened eye, |
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While the pale sheeted ghosts go by! |
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My love,she sleeps!Oh,may her sleep |
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As it is lasting,so be deep! |
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Soft may the worms about her creep! |
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May the worms about her creep! |
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My love,she sleeps!Oh,may her sleep |
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As it is lasting,so be deep! |
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Soft may the worms about her creep! |
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May the worms about her creep! |
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Far in the forest,dim and old, |
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For her may some tall vault unfold- |
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Some vault that of the flung its black |
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And winged panels fluttering back, |
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Triumphant,o ′′er the crested palls, |
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Of her grand family funerals- |
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Some sepulchre,remote,alone, |
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Against whose portal she hath thrown, |
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In childhood,many an idle stone- |
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Some tomb from out whose sounding door |
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She never shall force an echo more, |
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Thrilling to think,poor child of sin! |
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It was the dead who groaned within. |
