The Sleeper Edgar Allan Poe

The Sleeper Edgar Allan Poe

Edgar Allan Poe's Sleeping One? 3

Can you give me any metaphors and / or comparisons you can find?

Mid June

I am under the mystical moon.

Fog, dew, weak

Breathe through the golden edge,

And it drips slowly, drop by drop,

On a lonely mountain top

Sleep and music fly

In the universal valley.

Rosemary shakes her head at the grave.

Lily is crashing into the waves.

Fog cover

Break the ruins

You look like Lethe! the sea

Careful sleep lasts longer.

And I will not wake up for the world.

All the sleeping beauties! And come on! Or

Irene, with your luck!

Wonderful woman! Can be fair

Does this window open in ht?

Libertine, ventilated from tree tops

Laughing through the falling chimney

A useless melody, the defeat of the magician,

Fly in and out of your room.

And shake the canopy of the curtain.

It's really scary

Check that the lid is closed and swollen.

Where is your sleeping soul hidden?

Walls built in Ry.

As you move forward, the shadows rise and fall!

Dear woman, are you not afraid?

Why and what art do you dream of here?

You arrived safely in a distant sea.

Magic on this garden tree!

Your pale is weird! I miss your dress

I miss everyone at your peak.

And this serious silence!

The woman is sleeping! Oh let him sleep

What remains, goes deeper!

Heaven has placed him in their sacred cellar!

This room has moved.

This bed is for another sadness.

I pray he can lie.

Close your eyes forever

When the yellow sheets come!

My dear, he is sleeping! Oh let him sleep

How durable, dig so deep!

How lovingly the bugs chase them!

Down the road, dark and old

A huge safe came down on them.

The vault that is often inserted.

And the winged dish is shaking again.

Vitória, in the hooded cell,

From your grandparents

A lonely grave

Instead of a portal he went through,

In Child, more than a useless rock

The tomb of the door is ringing.

You can't force another EC,

Nice to think of you, sinner!

It was moaning inside.

I thought it was going to knock on the door of heaven. You recognize touching, touching, knocking on the door of heaven as if a crow were playing a raga theory about it ... maybe a spectacle of birds, birds, birds, bird music. If you think I still don't understand the theory, it might be a joke ... with all that, I'm actually more inclined to smell the police ... all of a sudden you're surprised Gay, broad and fresh music, the acceptance which he (the crows) took up unnaturally and quickly.

The Sleeper Edgar Allan Poe