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44 Edgar Poe.
Ulalume er Sangen om Sorgens evige
Monotoni, om Savnets Stirren paa det samme
Punkt og Sindets ørkesløse Kredsen om den
samme Tanke:
The skies they were ashen and sober
the leaves they were crisped and sere —
the leaves they were withering and sere;
it was night in the lonesome October
of my most immemorial year;
it was hard by the dim lake of Auber
in the misty mid region of Weir —
it was down by the dank tarn of Auber
in the ghoul haunted woodland of Weir.
Here once through an alley Titanic
of cypress, I roamed with my Soul,
— of cypress, with Psyche my Soul.
These were days when my heart was volcanic
as the scoriac rivers that roll — — —
For mange vil disse sælsomme, sig selv
ensformig gentagende Strofer have ringe
Mening; de er ogsaa vage og indholdsløse
oz uvirkelige i Sammenligning med
Tankedigte og andre udmærkede Ting; men den
som ikke er istand til at nynne sig ind i et
Digt som Ulalume, han er ikkedestomindre
fremmed for et af Livets Strøg, og det er
Poesiens. Ulalume er vlot Musik, og Poe
forstod i Virkeligheden blot at skrive for
dem som har »Musik i sin Sjæl«.
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