Incipit
O’er the midnight moorlands crying, Thro’ the cypress forests sighing, In the night-wind madly flying, Hellish forms with streaming hair; In the barren branches creaking, By the stagnant swamp-pools speaking, Past the shore-cliffs ever shrieking, Damn’d demons of despair. Once, I think I half remember, Ere the grey skies of November Quench’d my youth’s aspiring ember, Liv’d there such a thing as bliss; Skies that now are dark were beaming, Bold and azure, splendid seeming Till I learn’d it all was dreaming — Deadly drowsiness of Dis. But the stream of Time, swift flowing, Bri …
294 mots · Poésie · texte intégral sur Wikisource.
Version transcrite — source non identifiée, 1919. (Le numéro dont Wikisource donne le texte ; ce n’est pas toujours la première parution.)
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