To F--
Edgar Allan Poe, 1845

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.