by e. a. poe
by a route obscure and lonely,
haunted by ill angels only,
by the lakes that thus outspread
their lone waters, lone and dead,-
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.
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