Songtext zu 'The Sleeper' von Sopor Aeternus

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 musically)
Into the universal valley

The rosemary nods upon the grave
The lily lolls upon the wave
(Wrapping the fog about its breast)
The ruin molders into rest

Looking like Lethe, see! the lake
A conscious slumber seems to take
(And would not, for the world, awake)
And would not, for the world, awake

All Beauty sleeps!- and lo! where lies
His casement open to the skies
(My lover with his destinies)
O, lover bright! can it be right

O, 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 canopy)
So fitfully, so fearfully

Above the closed and fringed 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 no fear?
Why and what art thou dreaming here?
Sure thou art come O'er far-off seas
A wonder to these garden trees

Strange is thy pallor! strange thy dress
Strange, above all, thy length of tress
And this all this...
And this all this solemn silentness
The lady sleeps! Oh, may her sleep
Which is enduring, so be deep
Heaven have her in its sacred keep
This chamber changed for one more holy
This bed for one more melancholy
I pray to Saturn that she may lie
For ever with unopened eye
While the pale sheeted ghosts go by

My love, she sleeps! Oh, may her sleep
As it is lasting, so be deep
Soft may the worms about her creep
Far in the forest, dim and old
For her may some tall vault unfold
Some vault that oft has flung its black
And winged panels fluttering back
Triumphant, o'er the crested palls
Of her grand family funerals
Some sepulchre, remote, alone
Against whose portal she hath thrown
In childhood, many an idle stone
Some tomb from out whose sounding door
She ne'er shall force an echo more
Thrilling to think, poor child of sin
It was the dead who groaned within