by Poe · Cluster: Transience · Decay · Carpe Diem

Abstract

Allegorical poem in which a once-radiant palace (the mind of monarch Thought) falls to evil and madness, dramatizing decay, mutability and the fall from a golden past.

Connections

Topoi: Paradise Lost, Fall from Innocence, Golden Age, Sic Transit Gloria Mundi Archetypes: King Motifs: Decay, Mutability, Ghosts, Music and Song, Window Themes & Concepts: Madness, Mortality, Self-Knowledge Forms & Genres: Allegory, Lyric

Testo integrale / Full text

In the greenest of our valleys
By good angels tenanted,
Once a fair and stately palace—
Radiant palace—reared its head.
In the monarch Thought’s dominion—
It stood there!
Never seraph spread a pinion
Over fabric half so fair.

 Banners yellow, glorious, golden,  
     On its roof did float and flow,  
 (This—all this—was in the olden  
     Time long ago,)  
 And every gentle air that dallied,  
     In that sweet day,  
 Along the ramparts plumed and pallid,  
     A wingèd odor went away.  

 Wanderers in that happy valley,  
     Through two luminous windows, saw  
 Spirits moving musically,  
     To a lute’s well-tunèd law,  
 Round about a throne where, sitting  
     (Porphyrogene!)  
 In state his glory well befitting,  
     The ruler of the realm was seen.  

 And all with pearl and ruby glowing  
     Was the fair palace door,  
 Through which came flowing, flowing, flowing,  
     And sparkling evermore,  
 A troop of Echoes, whose sweet duty  
     Was but to sing,  
 In voices of surpassing beauty,  
     The wit and wisdom of their king.  

 But evil things, in robes of sorrow,  
     Assailed the monarch’s high estate.  
 (Ah, let us mourn!—for never morrow  
     Shall dawn upon him desolate!)  
 And round about his home the glory  
     That blushed and bloomed,  
 Is but a dim-remembered story  
     Of the old time entombed.  

 And travellers, now, within that valley,  
     Through the red-litten windows see  
 Vast forms, that move fantastically  
     To a discordant melody,  
 While, like a ghastly rapid river,  
     Through the pale door  
 A hideous throng rush out forever  
     And laugh—but smile no more.  

  1838.