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.
The general tuckermanities are arrant
Bubbles-ephemeral and so transparent-

But this is, now,-you may depend upon it—
Stable, opaque, immortal-all by dint
Of the dear names that lie concealed within 't.

ANNABEL LEE.

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;

With a love that the winged seraphs of heaven
Coveted her and me.

And this was the reason that, long ago,
In this kingdom by the sea,

12 Poe's Poems.

A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling
My beautiful Annabel Lee;

So that her highborn kinsman 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 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.

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
By 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 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,

Along 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 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
Was the fair palace door,

Through which came flowing, flowing, flowing

And sparkling evermore,

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 home the 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 the discordant melody,
While, like a ghastly rapid river,
Through the pale door

A hideous throng rush out forever
And laugh-but smile no more.

THE CONQUEROR WORM.

Lo! 'tis a gala night

Within the lonesome latter years;
An angel throng, bewinged, bedight
In veils, and drowned in tears,
Sit in a theater, to see

A play of hopes and fears,
While the orchestra breathes fitfully
The 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
At bidding of vast formless things
That shift the scenery to and fro,
Flapping from out their Condor wings
Invisible Woe!

That motely drama-oh, be sure
It shall not be forgot!

With its Phantom chased for evermore,
By a crowd that seize it not,

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.