Annanbel Lee
By Edgar
Allan Poe
It was many and many a year ago,
In a 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;
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 kinsman came
And bore her away from me,
To shut her up in a sepulchre
In this kingdom by the sea.
The angels, not half so happy in heave,
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 love
Of 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 side
Of my darling--my darling--my life and my bride,
In the sepulcher there by the sea,
In her tomb by the sounding sea.
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 enamored moon
Blushes with love,
While, to listen, the red levin
(With the rapid Pleiads, even,
Which were 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 are 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 where 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.
A Dream Within A Dream
by Edgar
Allan Poe
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! ca I not save
One from the pitiless wave?
Is all what we see or seem
But a dream within a dream?
Spirits
of the Dead
by Edgar
Allan Poe
Thy soul shall find itself alone
'Mid dark thoughts of the gray tombstone--
Not one of all the crowd, to pry
Into thine hour of secrecy.
Be silent in that solitude
Which is not loneliness, for then
The spirits of the dead who stood
In life before thee are again
In death around thee, and their will
Shall overshadow thee: be still.
The night, tho' clear, shall frown,
And th stars shall not look down
From their high thrones in the Heaven
With light like Hope to mortals given;
But their red orbs, without beam,
To thy weariness shall seem
As a burning and a fever
Which would cling to thee forever.
Now are thoughts thou shalt not banish --
Now are visions ne'er to vanish;
From thy spirit shall they pass
No more--like dew-drops from the grass.
The breeze--the breath of God--is still,
And the mist upon the hill
Shadowy--shadowy--yet unbroken,
Is a symbol and a token,--
How it hangs upon the trees,
A mystery of mysteries!