Edgar Allan Poe — To Isadore

I. BENEATH the vine-clad eaves         Whose shadows fall before         Thy lowly cottage door— Under the lilac’s tremulous leaves— Within thy snowy clasped hand The purple flowers it bore— Last eve in dreams, I saw thee stand, Like queenly nymph from Fairy-land— —Enchantress of the flowery wand,         Most beautiful Isadore! II. And when I bade the dream         Upon thy spirit flee,         Thy violet eyes to me Upturned, did overflowing seem With the deep, untold delight         Of Love’s serenity; Thy classic brow, like lilies white And pale as the Imperial Night Upon her throne, with stars bedight,         Enthrall’d my soul to thee! III. Ah! ever I behold         Thy dreamy, passionate eyes,         Blue as the languid skies Hung with the sunset’s fringe of gold; Now strangely clear thine image grows,         And olden memories Are startled from their long repose Like shadows on the silent snows When suddenly the night-wind blows         Where quiet moonlight lies. IV. Like music heard in dreams,         Like strains of harps unknown,         Of birds forever flown— Audible as the voice of streams That murmur in some leafy dell,         I hear thy gentlest tone, And Silence cometh with her spell Like that which on my tongue doth dwell When tremulous in dreams I tell         My love to thee alone! V. In every valley heard,         Floating from tree to tree,         Less beautiful to me, The music of the radiant bird, Than artless accents such as thine         Whose echoes never flee! Ah! how for thy sweet voice I pine:— For uttered in thy tones benign (Enchantress!) this rude name of mine         Doth seem a melody!