Through all the flimsy things we see at once As easily as through a Naples bonnet Trash of all trash!-how can a lady don it? Yet heavier far than your Petrarchan stuff— Owl-downy nonsense that the faintest puff Twirls into trunk-paper the while you con it.' And, veritably, Sol is right enough. But this is, now,-you may depend upon it— ANNABEL LEE. It was many and many a year ago, That a maiden there lived whom you may know 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 of heaven And this was the reason that, long ago, 12 Poe's Poems. A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling So that her highborn kinsman came In this kingdom by the sea. The angels, not half so happy in heaven, Yes! that was the reason (as all men know, 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, 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 you Are mother to the one I loved so dearly, And thus are dearer than the mother I knew By that infinity with which my wife Was dearer to my soul than its soul-life. THE HAUNTED PALACE. In the greenest of our valleys Once a fair and stately palace- Never seraph spread a pinion! Banners yellow, glorious, golden, And every gentle air that dallied, Along the ramparts plumed and pallid, Wanderers in that happy valley, Through two luminous windows, saw Spirits moving musically, To a lutes' swell-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 glowing Through which came flowing, flowing, flowing And sparkling evermore, A troop of Echoes, whose sweet duty In voices of surpassing beauty, The wit and wisdom of their king. But evil things, in robes of sorrow, And travelers, now, within that valley, Vast forms, that move fantastically A hideous throng rush out forever THE CONQUEROR WORM. Lo! 'tis a gala night Within the lonesome latter years; A play of hopes and fears, Mimes, in the form of God on high, Mere puppets they, who come and go That motely drama-oh, be sure With its Phantom chased for evermore, Through a circle that ever returneth in To the self-same spot, And much of Madness, and more of Sin And Horror the soul of the plot. |