To F--
By Edgar Allan Poe
Beloved! amid the earnest woes
That crowd around my earthly path,
(Drear path, alas! where grows
Not even one lonely rose),
My soul at least a solace hath
In dreams of thee, and therein knows
An Eden of bland repose.
And thus thy memory is to me
Like some enchanted far-off isle
In some tumultuous sea,
Some ocean throbbing far and free
With storm,but where meanwhile
Serenest skies continually
Just o'er that one bright inland smile.