Дипломная работа: Artistic peculiarities of short stories by E.A. Poe

None sing so widely well

As the angel Israfel,

And the giddy stars (so legends tell),

Ceasing their hymns, attend the spell

Of his voice, all mute.

Tottering above

In her highest noon,

The enamored moon

Blushes with love,

While, to listen, the red Levin

(With the rapid Pleiades, even,

Which were seven,)

Pauses in Heaven.

And they say (the starry choir

And the other listening things)

That Israfeli’s fire

Is owing to lyre

By which he sits and sings-

Of unusual strings.

But the skies that angel trod,

Where deep thoughts are a duty,

Where Love’s grown-up God,

Where the Houri glances are

Imbued with all the beauty

Which we worship in a star

Therefore, thou art not wrong,

Israfel, who despisest

An unimpassioned song;

To thee the laurels belong,