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Lines from "Israfel" by Edgar Allan Poe in inky black text on a background of Edgar Allan Poe, Dipped in dark color of murder and intrigue, this visage of the Master of Mystery broods in a misty repeat. May print darker depending on the fabric.. Any poem
Lines from "Israfel" by Edgar Allan Poe in inky black text on a background of Edgar Allan Poe, Dipped in dark color of murder and intrigue, this visage of the Master of Mystery broods in a misty repeat. May print darker depending on the fabric.. Any poem may be requested. Text is in the licensed Jane Austen font based on her handwriting. Other scales, fonts, colors and texts available upon request. Design available as text only and as portrait only.
BY EDGAR ALLAN POE
And the angel Israfel, whose heart-strings are a lute, and who has the sweetest voice of all Godâ€™s creatures. —KORAN
In Heaven a spirit doth dwell
â€œWhose heart-strings are a luteâ€;
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.
In her highest noon,
The enamoured 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 Israfeliâ€™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 Loveâ€™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 fervour 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
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.
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