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