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 storms- but where meanwhile Serenest skies continually Just o'er that one bright island smile.