Perfect being
Added 2021-12-07 07:13:35 +0000 UTCHung 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 ties.
Like music heard in dreams,
Like strains of harps unknown,
Of birds forever flown
Audible as the voice of streams
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!
– from a poem by Edgar Allan Poe (1809-1849)
