Annabel Lee

IT was many and many a year ago

In this kingdom by the sea

That a maiden there lived whom you may know

By the name of Annabel Lee;

And this maiden she lived with no other thought

Than to love and be loved by me.

I was a child, and she was a child,

In this kingdom by the sea,

But we loved with a love that was more than love,

I and my Annabel Lee,

With a love that the winged seraphs in heaven

Coveted her and me.

And that was the reason that, long ago,

In this kingdom by the sea,

A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling

My beautiful Annabel Lee,

So that her high-born kinsmen came

And bore her away from me,

To shut her up in a sepulcher

In this kingdom by the sea.

The angels, not half so happy in heaven,

Went envying her and me--

Yes! that was the reason (as all men know

In this kingdom by the sea)

That a wind blew out of a cloud by night,

Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee.

But our love it was stronger by far than the love

Of those that were older than we,

Of many far wiser than we,

And neither the angels in heaven above

Nor the demons down under the sea

Can ever dissever my soul from the soul

Of the beautiful Annabel Lee.

For the moon never beams without bringing me dreams

Of the beautiful Annabel Lee,

And the stars never rise but I feel the bright eyes

Of the beautiful Annabel Lee.

And so, all the night tide, I lie down by the side

Of my darling--my darling--my life and my bride,

In her sepulcher there by the sea--

In her tomb by the sounding sea.

Edgar Allan Poe

To One in Paradise

THOU wast that all to me, love,

For which my soul did pine --

A green isle in the sea, love,

A fountain and a shrine,

All wreathed with fairy fruits and flowers,

And all the flowers were mine.

Ah, Dream too bright to last!

Ah starry Hope! that didst arise

But to be overcast!

A voice from out the future cries,

"On! on!" -- but o'er the Past

(Dim gulf!) my spirit hovering lies

Mute, motionless, aghast!

For, alas! alas! with me

The light of Life is o'er!

No more -- no more -- no more --

(Such language holds the solomn sea

To the sands upon the shore)

Shall bloom the thunder-blasted tree,

Or the stricken eagle soar!

And all my days are trances,

And all my nightly dreams

Are where thy grey eye glances,

And where thy footstep gleams --

In what ethereal dances,

By what eternal streams.

Edgar Allan Poe

A Dream Within A Dream

TAKE this kiss upon the brow!

And, in parting from you now,

Thus much let me avow --

You are not wrong, who deem

That my days have been a dream;

Yet if Hope has flown away

In a night, or in a day,

In a vision, or in none,

Is it therefore the less gone?

All that we see or seem

Is but a dream within a dream.

I stand amid the roar

Of a surf-tormented shore,

And I hold within my hand

Grains of the golden sand --

How few! yet how they creep

Through my fingers to the deep,

While I weep -- while I weep!

O God! can I not grasp

Them with a tighter clasp?

O God! can I not save

One from the pitiless wave?

Is all that we see or seem

Is but a dream within a dream.

Edgar Allan Poe

The Raven

ONCE upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered weak and weary,

Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore,

While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,

As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.

"'Tis some visitor," I muttered, "tapping at my chamber door --

Only this, and nothing more."

Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December,

And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.

Eagerly I wished the morrow; -- vainly I had sought to borrow

From my books surcease of sorrow -- sorrow for the lost Lenore --

For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels named Lenore --

Nameless here for evermore.

And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtain

Thrilled me -- filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;

So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating

"'Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door --

Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door; --

This it is, and nothing more,"

Presently my heart grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,

"Sir," said I, "or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;

But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,

And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door,

That I scarce was sure I heard you" -- here I opened wide the door; --

Darkness there, and nothing more.

Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,

Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream to dream before;

But the silence was unbroken, and the darkness gave no token,

And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, "Lenore!"

This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word "Lenore!"

Merely this and nothing more.

Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,

Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before.

"Surely," said I, "surely that is something at my window lattice;

Let me see then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore --

Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore; --

'Tis the wind and nothing more!"

Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,

In there stepped a stately raven of the saintly days of yore.

Not the least obeisance made he; not an instant stopped or stayed he;

But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door --

Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door --

Perched, and sat, and nothing more.

Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,

By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore,

"Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou," I said, "art sure no craven.

Ghastly grim and ancient raven wandering from the Nightly shore --

Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night's Plutonian shore!"

Quoth the raven, "Nevermore."

Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,

Though its answer little meaning -- little relevancy bore;

For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being

Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door --

Bird or beast above the sculptured bust above his chamber door,

With such name as "Nevermore."

But the raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only

That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.

Nothing further then he uttered -- not a feather then he fluttered --

Till I scarcely more than muttered "Other friends have flown before --

On the morrow will he leave me, as my hopes have flown before."

Then the bird said, "Nevermore."

Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,

"Doubtless," said I, "what it utters is its only stock and store,

Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful Disaster

Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore --

Till the dirges of his Hope that melancholy burden bore

Of 'Never-nevermore.'"

But the Raven still beguiling all my sad soul into smiling,

Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird and bust and door;

Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking

Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore --

What this grim, ungainly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore

Meant in croaking "Nevermore."

This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing

To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom's core;

This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining

On the cushion's velvet violet lining that the lamp-light gloated o'er,

But whose velvet violet lining with the lamp-light gloating o'er,

She shall press, ah, nevermore!

Then, methought the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer

Swung by angels whose faint foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor.

"Wretch," I cried, "thy God hath lent thee - by these angels he has sent thee

Respite - respite and nepenthe from the memories of Lenore!

Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe, and forget this lost Lenore!"

Quoth the raven, "Nevermore."

"Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil! -- prophet still, if bird or devil! --

Whether Tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,

Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted --

On this home by Horror haunted -- tell me truly, I implore --

Is there -- is there balm in Gilead? -- tell me -- tell me, I implore!"

Quoth the raven, "Nevermore."

"Prophet!' said I, "thing of evil! -- prophet still, if bird or devil!

By that Heaven that bends above us -- by that God we both adore --

Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn,

It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels named Lenore --

Clasp a rare and radiant maiden, whom the angels named Lenore?"

Quoth the raven, "Nevermore."

"Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!" I shrieked upstarting --

"Get thee back into the tempest and the Night's Plutonian shore!

Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!

Leave my loneliness unbroken! -- quit the bust above my door!

Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!"

Quoth the raven, "Nevermore."

And the raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting

On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;

And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming,

And the lamp-light o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;

And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor

Shall be lifted -- nevermore.

Edgar Allan Poe

Eldorado

GAYLY bedight,

A gallant knight,

In sunshine and in shadow,

Had journeyed long,

Singing a song,

In search of Eldorado.

But he grew old,

This knight so bold,

And o'er his heart a shadow

Fell as he found

No spot of ground

That looked like Eldorado.

And, as his strength

Failed him at length,

He met a pilgrim shadow:

``Shadow,'' says he,

``Where can it be,

This land of Eldorado?''

Over the Mountains

Of the Moon,

Down the Valley of the Shadow,

Ride, boldly ride,''

The shade replied,

``If you seek for Eldorado!''

Edgar Allan Poe

Romance

ROMANCE, who loves to nod and sing

With drowsy head and folded wing

Among the green leaves as they shake

Far down within some shadowy lake,

To me a painted paroquet

Hath been--most familiar bird--

Taught me my alphabet to say,

To lisp my very earliest word

While in the wild wood I did lie,

A child--with a most knowing eye.

Of late, eternal condor years

So shake the very Heaven on high

With tumult as they thunder by,

I have no time for idle cares

Through gazing on the unquiet sky;

And when an hour with calmer wings

Its down upon my spirit flings,

That little time with lyre and rhyme

To while away--forbidden things--

My heart would feel to be a crime

Unless it trembled with the strings.

Edgar Allan Poe

The Happiest Day

THE happiest day--the happiest hour

My seared and blighted heart hath known,

The highest hope of pride and power,

I feel hath flown.

Of power! said I? Yes! such I ween

But they have vanished long, alas!

The visions of my youth have been--

But let them pass.

And pride, what have I now with thee?

Another brow may ev'n inherit

The venom thou hast poured on me--

Be still my spirit!

The happiest day--the happiest hour

Mine eyes shall see--have ever seen,

The brightest glance of pride and power

I feel have been:

But were that hope of pride and power

Now offered with the pain

Ev'n then I felt--that brightest hour

I would not live again:

For on its wings was dark alloy

And as it fluttered--fell

An essence--powerful to destroy

A soul that knew it well.

Edgar Allan Poe

To Helen

HELEN, thy beauty is to me

Like those Nicæan barks of yore,

That gently o'er the perfumed sea,

The weary, wayworn wanderer bore

To his own native shore.

On desperate seas long wont to roam,

Thy hyacinth hair, thy classic face,

Thy Naiad airs have brought me home

To the glory that was Greece

And the grandeur that was Rome.

Lo! in yon brilliant window-niche

How statue-like I see thee stand,

The agate lamp within thy hand!

Ah, Psyche, from the regions which

Are Holy Land!

Edgar Allan Poe

Israfel

[And the angel Israfel, whose heart-strings are a lute, and
who has the sweetest voice of all God's creatures. -- KORAN.]

IN Heaven a spirit doth dwell

Whose heart-strings are a lute;

None sing so wildly well

As the angel Israfel,

And the giddy stars (so legends tell),

Ceasing their hymns, attend the spell

Of his voice, all mute.

Tottering above

In her highest noon,

The enomoured moon

Blushes with love,

While, to listen, the red levin

(With the rapid Pleiads, even,

Which are seven)

Pauses in Heaven.

And they say (the starry choir

And the other listening things)

That Israfeli's fire

Is owing to that lyre

By which he sits and sings,

The trembling living wire

Of those unusual strings.

But the skies that angel trod,

Where deep thoughts are a duty,

Where Love's a grown-up God,

Where the Houri glances are

Imbued with all the beauty

Which we worship in a star.

Therefore thou art not wrong,

Israfeli, who despisest

An unimpassioned song;

To thee the laurels belong,

Best bard, because the wisest:

Merrily live, and long!

The ecstasies above

With thy burning measures suit:

Thy grief, thy joy, thy hate, thy love,

With the fervor of thy lute:

Well may the stars be mute!

Yes, Heaven is thine; but this

Is a world of sweets and sours;

Our flowers are merely--flowers,

And the shadow of thy perfect bliss

Is the sunshine of ours.

If I could dwell

Where Israfel

Hath dwelt, and he were I,

He might not sing so wildly well

A mortal melody,

While a bolder note than this might swell

From my lyre within the sky.

Edgar Allan Poe

The City in the Sea

LO! Death has reared himself a throne

In a strange city lying alone

Far down within the dim West,

Where the good and the bad and the worst and the best

Have gone to their eternal rest.

There shrines and palaces and towers

(Time-eaten towers that tremble not!)

Resemble nothing that is ours.

Around, by lifting winds forgot,

Resignedly beneath the sky

The melancholy waters lie.

No rays from the holy heaven come down

On the long night-time of that town,

But light from out the lurid sea

Shines up the turrets silently,

Gleams up the pinnacles far and free;

Up domes--up spires--up kingly halls--

Up fanes--up Babylon-like walls--

Up shadowy long-forgotten bowers

Of sculptured ivy and stone flowers--

Up many and many a marvelous shrine

Where wreathed friezes intertwine

The viol, the violet, and the vine.

Resignedly beneath the sky

The melancholy waters lie.

So blend the turrets and shadows there

That all seem pendulous in air,

While from a proud tower in the town

Death looks gigantically down.

There open fanes and gaping graves

Yawn level with the luminous waves,

But not the riches there that lie

Within each idol's diamond eye,

Not the gaily-jeweled dead

Tempt the waters from their bed,

For no ripples curl, alas!

Along that wilderness of glass,

No swellings tell that winds may be

Upon some far-off happier sea,

No heavings hint that winds have been

On seas less hideously serene.

For lo, a stir is in the air!

The wave--there is a movement there!

As if the towers cast aside

In slightly sinking, the dull tide;

As if their tops had feebly given

A void within the filmy heaven.

The waves have now a redder glow;

The hours are breathing faint and low.

And when, amid no earthly moans,

Down, down that town shall settle hence,

Hell, rising from a thousand thrones,

Shall do it reverence.

Edgar Allan Poe

The Haunted Palace

IN the greenest of our valleys

By good angels tenanted,

Once a fair and stately palace--

Radiant palace--raised its head.

In the monarch Thought's dominion

It stood there!

Never seraph spread a pinion

Over fabric half so fair!

Banners yellow, glorious, golden,

On its roof did float and flow

(This--all this--was in the olden

Time long ago),

And every gentle air that dallied

In that sweet day,

Upon the ramparts plumed and pallid,

A winged odor went away.

Wanderers in that happy valley,

Through two luminous windows, saw

Spirits moving musically

To a lute's well-timed law.

Round about a throne where, sitting,

(Porphyrogene!)

In state his glory well befitting,

The ruler of the realm was seen.

And all with pearl and ruby glowing

Was the fair palace-door,

Through which came, flowing, flowing, flowing,

And sparkling everymore,

A troop of Echoes, whose sweet duty

Was but to sing

In voices of surpassing beauty

The wit and wisdom of their king.

But evil things, in robes of sorrow,

Assailed the monarch's high estate.

(Ah, let us mourn--for never morrow

Shall dawn upon him desolate!)

And round about his house of glory

That blushed and bloomed

Is but a dim-remembered story

Of the old time entombed.

And travelers, now, within that valley

Through the red-litten windows see

Vast forms that move fantastically

To a discordant melody,

While, like a ghastly, rapid river,

Through the pale door

A hideous throng rush out forever

And laugh--but smile no more.

Edgar Allan Poe

Alone

FROM childhood's hour I have not been

As others were; I have not seen

As others saw; I could not bring

My passions from a common spring.

From the same source I have not taken

My sorrow; I could not awaken

My heart to joy at the same tone;

And all I loved, I loved alone.

Then - in my childhood, in the dawn

Of a most stormy life - was drawn

From every depth of good and ill

The mystery which binds me still:

From the torrent, or the fountain,

From the red cliff of the mountain,

From the sun that round me rolled

In its autumn tint of gold,

From the lightning in the sky

As it passed me flying by,

From the thunder and the storm,

And the cloud that took the form

(When the rest of Heaven was blue)

Of a demon in my view.

Edgar Allan Poe