Edgar All an Poe
¶[1800-1849]
753 Lenore
¶A H , broken is the golden bowl! the spirit flown forever!Let the bell toll!—a saintly soul floats on the Stygian river;And, Guy De Vere, hast thou no tear?—weep now or never more!See! on yon drear and rigid bier low lies thy love, Lenore!Come! let the burial rite be read—the funeral song be sung!—An anthem for the queenliest dead that ever died so young—A dirge for her the doubly dead in that she died so young.
¶'Wretches! ye loved her for her wealth and hated her for her pride,'And when she fell in feeble health, ye blessed her— that she died!'How shall the ritual, then, be read?—the requiem how be sung'By you—by yours, the evil eye,—by yours, the slanderous tongue'That did to death the innocence that died, and died so young?'
¶Peccavimus; but rave not thus! and let a Sabbath songGo up to God so solemnly the dead may feel no wrong!The sweet Lenore hath 'gone before,' with Hope, that flew beside,Leaving thee wild for the dear child that should have been thyFor her, the fair and debonair, that now so lowly lies, [bride—The life upon her yellow hair but not within her eyes—The life still there, upon her hair—the death upon her eyes.
¶'Avaunt! to-night my heart is light. No dirge will I upraise.'But waft the angel on her flight with a paean of old days!
p. 1225¶'Let no bell toll!—lest her sweet soul, amid its hallowed mirth, 'Should catch the note, as it doth float up from the damned Earth. 'To friends above, from fiends below, the indignant ghost is riven—'From Hell unto a high estate far up within the Heaven—
¶'From grief and groan, to a golden throne, beside the King of
¶Heaven.'
The Haunted Palace
¶IN the greenest of our valleysBy good angels tenanted,Once a fair and stately palace—Radiant palace—reared its head.In the monarch Thought's dominion—It stood there!Never seraph spread a pinionOver fabric half so fair!
¶Banners yellow, glorious, golden,On its roof did float and flow,(This—all this—was in the oldenTime long ago,)And every gentle air that dallied,In that sweet day,Along the ramparts plumed and pallid,A winged odor went away.
¶Wanderers in that happy valley,Through two luminous windows, sawSpirits moving musically,To a lute's well-tuned 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 glowingWas the fair palace door,Through which came flowing, flowing, flowing,And sparkling evermore,[1226]A troop of Echoes, whose sweet dutyWas 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 morrowShall dawn upon him desolate!)And round about his home the gloryThat blushed and bloomed,Is but a dim-remembered storyOf the old time entombed.
¶And travellers, now, within that valley,Through the red-litten windows seeVast forms, that move fantasticallyTo a discordant melody,While, like a ghastly rapid river,Through the pale doorA hideous throng rush out foreverAnd laugh—but smile no more.
To HELEN
¶HELEN , thy beauty is to meLike those Nicean barks of yore,That gently, o'er a perfumed sea,The weary, way-worn wanderer boreTo his own native shore.
¶On desperate seas long wont to roam,Thy hyacinth hair, thy classic face,Thy Naiad airs have brought me homeTo the glory that was Greece,And the grandeur that was Rome.
¶Lo! in yon brilliant window-nicheHow statue-like I see thee stand,The agate lamp within thy hand!Ah, Psyche, from the regions whichAre Holy Land!
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 visiter,' 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 borrowFrom my books surcease of sorrow—sorrow for the lost Lenore—For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore—Nameless here for evermore.
¶And the silken, sad, uncertain rustling of each purple curtainThrilled me—filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating' 'Tis some visiter entreating entrance at my chamber door—Some late visiter entreating entrance at my chamber door;—This it is and nothing more.'
¶Presently my soul 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 before;But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness 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.[1228]'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 flutterIn there stepped a stately Raven of the saintly days of yore.Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute 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 nocraven,Ghastly grim and ancient Raven wandering from the Nighdyshore—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 beingEver yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door—Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door,With such name as 'Nevermore.'
¶But the Raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke onlyThat one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.Nothing farther then he uttered—not a feather then he fluttered—Till I scarcely more than muttered 'Other friends have flownbefore—On the morrow he will 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 storeCaught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful DisasterFollowed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore—Till the dirges of his Hope that melancholy burden boreOf "Never—nevermore." '[1229]But the Raven still beguiling all my fancy into smiling,Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird and bust anddoor;Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linkingFancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore—What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yoreMeant in croaking 'Nevermore.'
¶This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressingTo the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom's core;This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease recliningOn the cushion's velvet 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 unseencenserSwung by Seraphim whose foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor.'Wretch,' I cried, 'thy God hath lent thee—by these angels he hathsent theeRespite—respite and nepenthe from thy 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 adoreTell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn,It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore—Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name 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!
p. 1230¶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!
Ulalume
¶THE skies they were ashen and sober;The leaves they were crisped and sere—The leaves they were withering and sere;It was night in the lonesome OctoberOf my most immemorial year;It was hard by the dim lake of Auber,In the misty mid region of Weir—It was down by the dank tarn of Auber,In the ghoul-haunted woodland of Weir.
¶Here once, through an alley Titanic,Of cypress, I roamed with my Soul—'•Of cypress, with Psyche, my Soul.These were days when my heart was volcanicAs the scoriae rivers that roll—As the lavas that restlessly rollTheir sulphurous currents down YaanekIn the ultimate climes of the pole—That groan as they roll down Mount YaanekIn the realms of the boreal pole.
¶Our talk had been serious and sober,But our thoughts they were palsied and sere—Our memories were treacherous and sere—[1231]For we knew not the month was October,And we marked not the night of the year—(Ah, night of all nights in the year!)We noted not the dim lake of Auber—(Though once we had journeyed down here)—Remembered not the dank tarn of Auber,Nor the ghoul-haunted woodland of Weir.
¶And now, as the night was senescentAnd star-dials pointed to morn—As the star-dials hinted of morn—At the end of our path a liquescentAnd nebulous lustre was born,Out of which a miraculous crescentArose with a duplicate horn—Astarte's bediamonded crescentDistinct with its duplicate horn.
¶And I said—'She is warmer than Dian:She rolls through an ether of sighs—She revels in a region of sighs:She has seen that the tears are not dry onThese cheeks, where the worm never diesAnd has come past the stars of the LionTo point us the path to the skies—To the Lethean peace of the skies—Come up, in despite of the Lion,To shine on us with her bright eyes—Come up through the lair of the Lion,With love in her luminous eyes.'
¶But Psyche, uplifting her finger,Said—'Sadly this star I mistrust—Her pallor I strangely mistrust:—Oh,hasten!—oh, let us not linger!Oh, fly!—let us fly!—for we must.'In terror she spoke, letting sink herWings until they trailed in the dust—In agony sobbed, letting sink herPlumes till they trailed in the dust—Till they sorrowfully trailed in the dust.[1232]I replied—"This is nothing but dreaming:Let us on by this tremulous light!Let us bathe in this crystalline light!Its Sibyllic splendor is beamingWith Hope and in Beauty to-night:—See!—it flickers up the sky through the night!Ah, we safely may trust to its gleaming,And be sure it will lead us aright—We safely may trust to a gleamingThat cannot but guide us aright,Since it flickers up to Heaven through the night.'
¶Thus I pacified Psyche and kissed her,And tempted her out of her gloom—And conquered her scruples and gloom;And we passed to the end of the vista,But were stopped by the door of a tomb—By the door of a legended tomb;And I said—'What is written, sweet sister,On the door of this legended tomb?'She replied—'Ulalume—Ulalume—'Tis the vault of thy lost Ulalume!'
¶Then my heart it grew ashen and soberAs the leaves that were crisped and sere—As the leaves that were withering and sere,And I cried—'It was surely OctoberOn this very night of last yearThat I journeyed—I journeyed down here—That I brought a dread burden down here—On this night of all nights in the year,Ah, what demon has tempted me here?Well I know, now, this dim lake of Auber—This misty mid region of Weir—Well I know, now, this dank tarn of Auber,This ghoul-haunted woodland of Weir.'
The Bells
¶1HEAR the sledges with the bells—Silver bells!What a world of merriment their melody foretells!How they tinkle, tinkle, tinkle,In the icy air of night!While the stars that oversprinkleAll the heavens, seem to twinkleWith a crystalline delight;Keeping time, time, time,In a sort of Runic rhyme,To the tintinnabulation that so musically wellsFrom the bells, bells, bells, bells,Bells, bells, bells—From the jingling and the tinkling of the bells.
II
¶Hear the mellow wedding bells—Golden bells!What a world of happiness their harmony foretells!Through the balmy air of nightHow they ring out their delight!—From the molten-golden notes,And all in tune,What a liquid ditty floatsTo the turtle-dove that listens, while she gloatsOn the moon!Oh, from out the sounding cells,What a gush of euphony voluminously wells!How it swells!How it dwellsOn the Future!—how it tellsOf the rapture that impelsTo the swinging and the ringingOf the bells, bells, bells—Of the bells, bells, bells, bells,Bells, bells, bells—To the rhyming and the chiming of the bells!
III
¶Hear the loud alarum bells—Brazen bells!What a tale of terror, now, their turbulency tells!In the starded ear of nightHow they scream out their affright!Too much horrified to speak,They can only shriek, shriek,Out of tune,In a clamorous appealing to the mercy of the fire,In a mad expostulation with the deaf and frantic fire,Leaping higher, higher, higher,With a desperate desire,And a resolute endeavorNow—now to sit, or never,By the side of the pale-faced moon.Oh, the bells, bells, bells!What a tale their terror tellsOf Despair!How they clang, and clash, and roar!What a horror they outpourOn the bosom of the palpitating air!Yet the ear, it fully knows,By the twanging,And the clanging,How the danger ebbs and flows;Yet the ear distinctly tells,In the jangling,And the wrangling,How the danger sinks and swells,By the sinking or the swelling in the anger of the bells—Of the bells—Of the bells, bells, bells, bells,Bells, bells, bells—In the clamor and the clanging of the bells!
IV
¶Hear the tolling of the bells—Iron bells!What a world of solemn thought their monody compels![1235]In the silence of the night,How we shiver with affrightAt the melancholy menace of their tone!For every sound that floatsFrom the rust within their throatsIs a groan.And the people—ah, the people—They that dwell up in the steeple,All alone,And who, tolling, tolling, tolling,In that muffled monotone,Feel a glory in so rollingOn the human heart a stone—They are neither man nor woman—They are neither brute nor human—They are Ghouls:—And their king it is who tolls:—And he rolls, rolls, rolls,RollsA paean from the bells!And his merry bosom swellsWith the paean of the bells!And he dances, and he yells;Keeping time, time, time,In a sort of Runic rhyme,To the paean of the bells:—Of the bells:Keeping time, time, timeIn a sort of Runic rhyme,To the throbbing of the bells—Of the bells, bells, bells:—To the sobbing of the bells:—Keeping time, time, time,As he knells, knells, knells,In a happy Runic rhyme, .To the rolling of the bells—Of the bells, bells, bells—To the tolling of the bells—Of the bells, bells, bells, bells,Bells, bells, bells—To the moaning and the groaning of the bells.
759 To MY MOTHER
¶BECAUSE I feel that, in the Heavens above,The angels, whispering to one another,Can find, among their burning terms of love,None so devotional as that of 'Mother,'Therefore by that dear name I long have called you—You who are more than mother unto me,And fill my heart of hearts, where Death installed you,In setting my Virginia's spirit free.My mother—my own mother, who died early,Was but the mother of myself; but youAre mother to the one I loved so dearly,And thus are dearer than the mother I knewBy that infinity with which my wifeWas dearer to my soul than its soul-life.
760 for Annie
¶THANK Heaven! the crisis—The danger is past,And the lingering illnessIs over at last—And the fever called 'Living'Is conquered at last.
¶Sadly, I knowI am shorn of my strength,And no muscle I moveAs I lie at full length—But no matter!—I feelI am better at length.
¶And I rest so composedlyNow, in my bed,That any beholderMight fancy me dead—Might start at beholding me,Thinking me dead.
¶The moaning and groaning,The sighing and sobbing,[1237]Are quieted now,With that horrible throbbingAt heart:—ah that horrible,Horrible throbbing!
¶The sickness—the nausea—The pitiless pain—Have ceased with the feverThat maddened my brain—With the fever called 'Living'That burned in my brain.
¶And oh! of all torturesThat torture the worstHas abated—the terribleTorture of thirstFor the naphthaline riverOf Passion accurst:—I have drank of a waterThat quenches all thirst:—
¶Of a water that flows,With a lullaby sound,From a spring but a very fewFeet under ground—From a cavern not very farDown under ground.
¶And ah! let it neverBe foolishly saidThat my room it is gloomyAnd narrow my bed;For a man never sleptIn a different bed—And, to sleep, you must slumberIn just such a bed.
¶My tantalized spiritHere blandly reposes,[1238]Forgetting, or neverRegretting, its roses—Its old agitationsOf myrtles and roses:
¶For now, while so quietlyLying, it fanciesA holier odorAbout it, of pansies—A rosemary odor,Commingled with pansies—With rue and the beautifulPuritan pansies.
¶And so it lies happily,Bathing in manyA dream of the truthAnd the beauty of Annie—Drowned in a bathOf the tresses of Annie.
¶She tenderly kissed me,She fondly caressed,And then I fell gentlyTo sleep on her breast—Deeply to sleepFrom the heaven of her breast.
¶When the light was extinguished,She covered me warm,And she prayed to the angelsTo keep me from harm—To the queen of the angelsTo shield me from harm.
¶And I lie so composedly,Now, in my bed,(Knowing her love)That you fancy me dead—[1239]And I rest so contentedly,Now, in my bed,(With her love at my breast)That you fancy me dead—That you shudder to look at me,Thinking me dead:—
¶But my heart it is brighterThan all of the manyStars of the sky,For it sparkles with Annie—It glows with the lightOf the love of my Annie—With the thought of the lightOf the eyes of my Annie.
76/ Annabel Lee
¶I T was many and many a year ago,In a kingdom by the seaThat a maiden there lived whom you may know
¶By the name of ANNABEL LEE ;
¶/ 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 —
¶And this 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 cameAnd bore her away from me,To shut her up in a sepulchreIn this kingdom by the sea.[1240]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 the wind came out of the cloud by night,
¶Chilling and killing my ANNABEL LEE .
¶But our love it was stronger by far than the loveOf those who 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 sideOf my darling—my darling—my life and my bride,In the sepulchre there by the sea—In her tomb by the sounding sea.
The Conqueror Worm
¶Lo! 'tis a gala nightWithin the lonesome latter years!An angel throng, bewinged, bedightIn veils, and drowned in tears,Sit in a theatre, to seeA play of hopes and fears,While the orchestra breathes fitfullyThe music of the spheres.
¶Mimes, in the form of God on high,Mutter and mumble low,And hither and thither fly—Mere puppets they, who come and go[1241]At bidding of vast formless thingsThat shift the scenery to and fro,Flapping from out their Condor wingsInvisible Woe!
¶That modey drama—oh, be sureIt shall not be forgot!With its Phantom chased for evermore,By a crowd that seize it not,Through a circle that ever returneth inTo the self-same spot,And much of Madness, and more of Sin,And Horror the soul of the plot.
¶But see, amid the mimic routA crawling shape intrude!A blood-red thing that writhes from outThe scenic solitude!It writhes!—it writhes!—with mortal pangsThe mimes become its food,And seraphs sob at vermin fangsIn human gore imbued.
¶Out—out are the lights—out all!And, over each quivering form,The curtain, a funeral pall,Comes down with the rush of a storm,While the angels, all pallid and wan,Uprising, unveiling, affirmThat the play is the tragedy, 'Man,'And its hero the Conqueror Worm.