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<h1>The Forest Reverie</h1>
<h3>By Edgar Allan Poe</h3>
<p>'Tis said that when<br/>
The hands of men<br/>
Tamed this primeval wood,<br/>
And hoary trees with groans of wo,<br/>
Like warriors by an unknown foe,<br/>
Were in their strength subdued,<br/>
The virgin Earth<br/>
Gave instant birth<br/>
To springs that ne'er did flow—<br/>
That in the sun<br/>
Did rivulets run,<br/>
And all around rare flowers did blow—<br/>
The wild rose pale<br/>
Perfumed the gale,<br/>
And the queenly lily adown the dale<br/>
(Whom the sun and the dew<br/>
And the winds did woo),<br/>
With the gourd and the grape luxuriant grew.<br/><br/>
So when in tears<br/>
The love of years<br/>
Is wasted like the snow,<br/>
And the fine fibrils of its life<br/>
By the rude wrong of instant strife<br/>
Are broken at a blow—<br/>
Within the heart<br/>
Do springs upstart<br/>
Of which it doth now know,<br/>
And strange, sweet dreams,<br/>
Like silent streams<br/>
That from new fountains overflow,<br/>
With the earlier tide<br/>
Of rivers glide<br/>
Deep in the heart whose hope has died—<br/>
Quenching the fires its ashes hide,—<br/>
Its ashes, whence will spring and grow<br/>
Sweet flowers, ere long,—<br/>
The rare and radiant flowers of song!
</p>
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