The Soul of Osiris

THE COURT OF THE PROFANE. 47 LOVE, MELANCHOLY, DESPAIR.1 EEP melancholy—O, the child of folly !— Looms on my brow, a perched ancestral bird ; Black are its plumes, its eyes are melancholy, It speaks no word. Like to a star, deep beauty’s avatar Pales in the dusky skies so far above : Seven rays of gladness crown its passionate star, One heart of love. The fringing trees, marge of deep-throated seas, Move as I walk : like spectres whispering The spaces of them : let me leave the trees— It is not spring ! Spring—no ! but dying autumn fast and flying, Sere leaves and frozen robins in my breast ! There is the winter—were I sure in dying To find some rest ! 1 This poem is partially composed on Mr. Poe’s scheme of verse–vide “ The Philosophy of Composition.” D