| The Valley of Unrest
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| BY EDGAR ALLAN POE
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| Once it smiled a silent dell
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| Where the people did not dwell;
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| They had gone unto the wars,
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| Trusting to the mild-eyed stars,
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| Nightly, from their azure towers,
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| To keep watch above the flowers,
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| In the midst of which all day
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| The red sun-light lazily lay.
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| Now each visitor shall confess
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| The sad valley’s restlessness.
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| Nothing there is motionless—
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| Nothing save the airs that brood
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| Over the magic solitude.
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| Ah, by no wind are stirred those trees
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| That palpitate like the chill seas
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| Around the misty Hebrides!
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| Ah, by no wind those clouds are driven
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| That rustle through the unquiet Heaven
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| Uneasily, from morn till even,
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| Over the violets there that lie
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| In myriad types of the human eye—
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| Over the lilies there that wave
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| And weep above a nameless grave!
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| They wave:—from out their fragrant tops
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| External dews come down in drops.
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| They weep:—from off their delicate stems
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| Perennial tears descend in gems. |