readding poems

she sits in fount of the fire a well worn leather bound book open upon her lap the words on the page seem to tumble out of her mouth, wither planed or not they come...

Beloved! amid the earnest woes
        That crowd around my earthly path-
      (Drear path, alas! where grows
      Not even one lonely rose)-
        My soul at least a solace hath
      In dreams of thee, and therein knows
      An Eden of bland repose.

      And thus thy memory is to me
        Like some enchanted far-off isle
      In some tumultuous sea-
      Some ocean throbbing far and free
        With storms- but where meanwhile
      Serenest skies continually
      Just o'er that one bright island smile.


---Edger Allan Poe... To F---


ooc... yes he is my favorite author...