A depiction of the poem by Edmund Dulac
Dim vales—and shadowy floods—
And cloudy-looking woods,
Whose forms we can't discover
For the tears that drip all over!
Huge moons there wax and wane—
Again—again—again—
Every moment of the night—
Forever changing places—
And they put out the star-light
With the breath from their pale faces
About twelve by the moon-dial
One more filmy than the rest
(A kind which, upon trial,
They have found to be the best)
Comes down—still down—and down
With its centre on the crown
Of a mountain's eminence,
While its wide circumference
In easy drapery falls
Over hamlets, over halls,
Wherever they may be—
O'er the strange woods—o'er the sea—
Over spirits on the wing—
Over every drowsy thing—
And buries them up quite
In a labyrinth of light—
And then, how deep!—O, deep!
Is the passion of their sleep.
In the morning they arise,
And their moony covering
Is soaring in the skies,
With the tempests as they toss,
Like——almost any thing—
Or a yellow Albatross.
They use that moon no more
For the same end as before—
Videlicet a tent—
Which I think extravagant:
Its atomies, however,
Into a shower dissever,
Of which those butterflies,
Of Earth, who seek the skies,
And so come down again
(Never-contented things!)
Have brought a specimen
Upon their quivering wings.
This poem was, quite gashingly, published by the time Poe was 20 years old. Wikipedia claims that the first person to whom Poe offered the poem for publication 'threw the submission into the fire and joyfully watched it burn,' in what is probably one of the most idiotic responses to such a poem. Others dismissed the poem as nonsensical, which to me would seem almost excessively complimentary. It's a strange human insistence that almost everything must have a secret meaning, and nothing can simply be. I do not suppose many would dismiss a wonderfully tended garden as nonsensical - it fulfils its purpose simply through its presence, its beauty, its redolence. Of course one may organise flowers in such a way as to create 'meaning', but this is an artifice, a dead accretion. In many ways it is a truer representation of the world to present the world in the way this poem does - lacking meaning, lacking premeditation or divine sentience. This is what Wilde tried to show, and many of his poems are almost devoid of 'deeper meaning' as a result, resembling sketches more than contrived visions. Read his Impressions for a good example.
So it is sheer beauty this poem of Poe's is concerned with. If it failed in this charge then I would agree that meaning is all that could save it, but the poem certainly does not fail. It is perhaps premature of me to eulogise a poem merely through its use of several of my favourite words, but then being premature in one's opinions is part of the fun. 'Atomy', 'dissever' and 'tempest' are three such words, the kind of words which, used in sufficient quantity, put free space in my underwear at a premium (I have just realised this could be interpreted as a scatological remark... it is not. No infirmity haunts my alimentary canal. Just thought I'd make that clear).
There's a kind of disorientation permeating each line of this poem, and the rhythm is quite reminiscent of the way Shelley would write. This perfectly suits the subject matter, augmenting the already prominent ethereality that runs through the poem. Poe seemed to have a thing for dashes in his poetry as well, and they are used to great effect here; there is a real feeling of sensory overload. This is quite an unconventional poem but I think it needs to be. Just look at the way we realise the rhyme scheme has changed at 'Forever changing places' - I find that so charming.
By the way, I have just discovered that women can buy high-heeled trainers. Well, men can buy them also. Even dogs can buy them if they have the money and a preternatural dexterity to facilitate the exchange of funds. But the shoes themselves, how gauche! I weep at the sight. This is what too often happens when pragmatism and aesthetics mix - the resultant mess is impractical and looks like crap. This is to say, you will be late to the fashion show and will be derided when you get there. Sometimes it is best to put all your eggs in one basket. This poem does just this - it does not pretend to be practical or meaningful, it is merely aesthetically pleasing. All poetry can be interpreted in this way if one so wishes. Therefore, I implore you to put all your eggs in one basket and hop aboard the Poetrymobile.
[Later edit: Poe writes in The Poetic Principle, in a precursor to the aesthetic view on poetry that Wilde often gains sole credit for, of the absolute primacy of beauty in poetry:
'To recapitulate then:- I would define, in brief, the Poetry of words as The Rhythmical Creation of Beauty. Its sole arbiter is Taste. With the Intellect or with the Conscience it has only collateral relations. Unless incidentally, it has no concern whatever either with Duty or with Truth.'Reassuring to my sentiment on the matter, he then clarifies:
'It by no means follows, however, that the incitements of Passion, or the precepts of Duty, or even the lessons of Truth, may not be introduced into a poem, and with advantage, for they may subserve incidentally, in various ways, the general purposes of the work: but the true artist will always contrive to tone them down in proper subjection to that Beauty which is the atmosphere and the real essence of the poem.'Clearly, then, the lack of 'meaning' in this poem is quite deliberate.]
