1831

ISRAFEL

by Edgar Allan Poe

ISRAFEL -

In Heaven a spirit doth dwell

"Whose heart-strings are a lute";

None sing so wildly well

As the angel Israfel,

And the giddy stars (so legends tell),

Ceasing their hymns, attend the spell

Of his voice, all mute. -

Tottering above

In her highest noon,

The enamored moon

Blushes with love,

While, to listen, the red levin

(With the rapid Pleiads, even,

Which were seven,)

Pauses in Heaven. -

And they say (the starry choir

And the other listening things)

That Israfeli's fire

Is owing to that lyre

By which he sits and sings-

The trembling living wire

Of those unusual strings. -

But the skies that angel trod,

Where deep thoughts are a duty-

Where Love's a grown-up God-

Where the Houri glances are

Imbued with all the beauty

Which we worship in a star. -

Therefore thou art not wrong,

Israfeli, who despisest

An unimpassioned song;

To thee the laurels belong,

Best bard, because the wisest!

Merrily live, and long! -

The ecstasies above

With thy burning measures suit-

Thy grief, thy joy, thy hate, thy love,

With the fervor of thy lute-

Well may the stars be mute! -

Yes, Heaven is thine; but this

Is a world of sweets and sours;

Our flowers are merely- flowers,

And the shadow of thy perfect bliss

Is the sunshine of ours. -

If I could dwell

Where Israfel

Hath dwelt, and he where I,

He might not sing so wildly well

A mortal melody,

While a bolder note than this might swell

From my lyre within the sky. - -