The Sleeper BY EDGAR ALLAN POE At midnight, in the month of June,I stand beneath the mystic moon.An opiate vapor, dewy, dim,Exhales from out her golden rim,And softly dripping, drop by drop,Upon the quiet mountain top,Steals drowsily and musicallyInto the universal valley.The rosemary nods upon the grave;The lily lolls upon the wave;Wrapping the fog about its breast,The ruin moulders into rest;Looking like Lethe, see! the lakeA conscious slumber seems to take,And would not, for the world, awake.All Beauty sleeps!—and lo! where liesIrene, with her Destinies! Oh, lady bright! can it be right—This window open to the night?The wanton airs, from the tree-top,Laughingly through the lattice drop—The bodiless airs, a wizard rout,Flit through thy chamber in and out,And wave the curtain canopySo fitfully—so fearfully—Above the closed and fringéd lid’Neath which thy slumb’ring soul lies hid,That, o’er the floor and down the wall,Like ghosts the shadows rise and fall!Oh, lady dear, hast thou…