By Edgar Allen Poe

I dwelt alone
In a world of moan
And my soul was a stagnant tide
Till the fair and gentle Eulalie

   became my blushing bride- 

Till the yellow-haired young Eulalie

   became my smiling bride. 

Ah, less-- less bright
Are the stars of night
Than the eyes of the radiant girl!
And never a flake
That the vapor can make
With the moon-tints of purple and pearl,
Can vie with the modest Eulalie's

    most unregarded curl- 

Can compare with the bright-eyed Eulalie's

   most humble and careless curl. 

Now Doubt-- now Pain
Come never again,
For her soul gives me sigh for sigh
And all day long
Shines, bright and strong,
Astarte within the sky,
While ever to her dear Eulalie

   upturns her matron eye- 

While ever to her young Eulalie

   upturns her violet eye.

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