Oh, fly!-let us fly! for we must."
In terror she spoke, letting sink her
Wings until they trailed in the dust,
In agony sobbed, letting sink her

Plumes till they trailed in the dust,
Till they sorrowfully trailed in the dust.

I replied "This is nothing but dreaming:
Let us on by this tremulous light!
Let us bathe in this crystalline light!
Its sibyllic splendor is beaming

With hope and in beauty to-night:

See, it flickers up the sky through the night! Ah, we safely may trust to its gleaming,

And be sure it will lead us aright:

We safely may trust to a gleaming

That cannot but guide us aright,

Since it flickers up to Heaven through the night."

Thus I pacified Psyche and kissed her,
And tempted her out of her gloom,
And conquered her scruples and gloom;
And we passed to the end of the vista,

But were stopped by the door of a tomb,
By the door of a legended tomb;

And I said "What is written, sweet sister,
On the door of this legended tomb?"
She replied "Ulalume-Ulalume-
'Tis the vault of thy lost Ulalume!"

Then

my heart it grew ashen and sober As the leaves that were crispèd and serę,

As the leaves that were withering and sere, And I cried "It was surely October

On this very night of last year

That I journeyed-I journeyed down here, That I brought a dread burden down here: On this night of all nights in the year, Ah, what demon has tempted me here? Well I know, now, this dim lake of Auber, This misty mid region of Weir:

Well I know, now, this dank tarn of Auber, This ghoul-haunted woodland of Weir."

To Helen

Helen, thy beauty is to me.

Like those Nicæan barks of yore, That gently, o'er a perfumed sea, The weary, wayworn wanderer bore To his own native shore.

On desperate seas long wont to roam,
Thy hyacinth hair, thy classic face,
Thy Naiad airs, have brought me home
To the glory that was Greece
And the grandeur that was Rome.

Lo! in yon brilliant window-niche
How statue-like I see thee stand,

The agate lamp within thy hand!
Ah, Psyche, from the regions which
Are Holy Land!

The Last Leaf

I saw him once before,
As he passed by the door,
And again

The pavement stones resound,
As he totters o'er the ground
With his cane.

They say that in his prime,
Ere the pruning-knife of Time
Cut him down,

Not a better man was found
By the Crier on his round
Through the town.

But now he walks the streets,
And he looks at all he meets

Sad and wan,

And he shakes his feeble head,
That it seems as if he said,
"They are gone."

The mossy marbles rest

On the lips that he has prest

In their bloom,

And the names he loved to hear

Have been carved for many a year

On the tomb.

My grandmamma has said—
Poor old lady, she is dead

Long ago

That he had a Roman nose,

And his cheek was like a rose In the snow.

But now his nose is thin,

And it rests upon his chin

Like a staff,

And a crook is in his back,
And a melancholy crack
In his laugh.

I know it is a sin

For me to sit and grin

At him here;

But the old three-cornered hat, And the breeches, and all that, Are so queer!

And if I should live to be

The last leaf upon the tree

In the spring,

Let them smile, as I do now,
At the old forsaken bough

Where I cling.