The motivation for the NPM series is to celebrate April 2015 -- the National poetry month (hence NPM in the title), by sharing a favorite poem of mine every day of this month, starting April 13, 2015.
When one of the most celebrated mystery writers of all time writes a poem, it is bound to be unusual. This poem by Edgar Allan Poe is a testimony to the fact. Its characteristic style of rhythm and unique use of poetic devices, combined with the agonized undercurrents in Poe's writing, have given way to rich interpretations and speculations, including psychoanalytical impressions about its poetry and Poe himself!
Take this kiss upon the brow!
And, in parting from you now,
Thus much let me avow —
You are not wrong, who deem
That my days have been a dream;
Yet if hope has flown away
In a night, or in a day,
In a vision, or in none,
Is it therefore the less gone?
All that we see or seem
Is but a dream within a dream.
I stand amid the road
Of a surf-tormented shore,
And I hold within my hand
Grains of the golden sand —
How few! yet how they creep
Through my fingers to the deep,
While I weep — while I weep!
O God! Can I not grasp
Them with a tighter clasp?
O God! can I not save
One from the pitiless wave?
Is all that we see or seem
But a dream within a dream?
When one of the most celebrated mystery writers of all time writes a poem, it is bound to be unusual. This poem by Edgar Allan Poe is a testimony to the fact. Its characteristic style of rhythm and unique use of poetic devices, combined with the agonized undercurrents in Poe's writing, have given way to rich interpretations and speculations, including psychoanalytical impressions about its poetry and Poe himself!
A Dream Within a Dream
-- Edgar Allan PoeTake this kiss upon the brow!
And, in parting from you now,
Thus much let me avow —
You are not wrong, who deem
That my days have been a dream;
Yet if hope has flown away
In a night, or in a day,
In a vision, or in none,
Is it therefore the less gone?
All that we see or seem
Is but a dream within a dream.
I stand amid the road
Of a surf-tormented shore,
And I hold within my hand
Grains of the golden sand —
How few! yet how they creep
Through my fingers to the deep,
While I weep — while I weep!
O God! Can I not grasp
Them with a tighter clasp?
O God! can I not save
One from the pitiless wave?
Is all that we see or seem
But a dream within a dream?
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