C'etait l'heure ou l'essaim des reves malfaisants Tord sur leurs oreillers les bruns adolescents.

Fourmillante cite, cite pleine de reves, Ou le spectre en plein jour raccroche le passant!

Un soir, l'ame du vin chantait dans les bouteilles: 'Homme, vers toi je pousse, o cher desherite, Sous ma prison de verre et mes cires vermeilles.'

Je suis un cimetiere abhorre de la lune.

I arise from dreams of thee In the first sweet sleep of night, When the winds are breathing low, And the stars are shining bright.

Never could I tell, try as I might, what it actually was that I saw; nor could the still face tell, for although it must have seen more than I did, it will nev…

Into a slumber then I fell, When fond imagination Seemed to see, but could not tell Her feature or her fashion.