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Imitation

by Edgar Allan Poe

A dark unfathomed tide

Of interminable pride—

A mystery, and a dream,

Should my early life seem;

I say that dream was fraught

With a wild and waking thought

Of beings that have been,

Which my spirit hath not seen,

Had I let them pass me by,

With a dreaming eye!

Let none of earth inherit

That vision on my spirit;

Those thoughts I would control,

As a spell upon his soul:

For that bright hope at last

And that light time have past,

And my wordly rest hath gone

With a sigh as it passed on:

I care not though it perish

With a thought I then did cherish.