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I cannot make him dead! When passing by the bed, So long watched over with parental care,

My spirit and my eye Seek him inquiringly, Before the thought comes that — he is not there!

When, at the cool, gray break Of day, from sleep I wake, With my first breathing of the morning air. My soul goes up, with joy, To Him who gave my boy; Then comes the sad thought that — he is not there!

When at the day's calm close,

Before we seek repose, [ prayer, I'm with his mother, offering up our

Whate'er I may be saying.

I am in spirit praying For our boy's spirit, though — he is not there!

Not there! — Where then is he? The form I used to see Was but the raiment that he used to wear.

The grave, that now doth press Upon that cast-off dress, Is but his wardrobe locked; — he is not there!

He lives!— In all the past

He lives; nor, to the last,
Of seeing him again will I despair;

In dreams I see him now;

And, on his angel brow, I see it written, "Thou shalt see me there!"

Yes, we all live to God! Father, thy chastening rod So help us, thine afflicted ones, to bear,

That, in the spirit-land, Meeting at thy right hand, 'Twill be our heaven to find that — he is there!

Edgar Allan Poe.

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 the kingdom by the sea,

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

So that her highborn kinsmen 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
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 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 sepulchre there by the sea, In her tomb by the sounding sea.

THE BELLS.

Heaji 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 oversprinkle All the heavens, seem to twinkle With a crystalline delight; Keeping time, time, time, In a sort of Runic rhyme, To the tintinnabulation that so musically wells From the bells, bells, bells, bells,

Bells, bells, bells — From the jingling and the tinkling of the bells.

Hear the mellow wedding bells. Golden bells! What a world of happiness their harmony foretells! Through the balmy air of night How they ring out their delight! From the molten-golden notes,

And all in tune, What a liquid ditty floats To the turtle-dove that listens, while she gloats On the moon! Oh. from out the sounding cells, What a gush of euphony voluminously wells!

How it swells!
How it dwells
On the future! how it tells
Of the rapture that impels
To the sw inging and the ringing

Of the bells, bells, bells,
Of the bells, bells, bells, bells,
Bells, bells, bells —
To the rhyming and the chiming of
the bells!

Hear the loud alarum bells — Brazen bells! What a tale of terror, now, their turbulency tells! In the startled ear of night How 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 endeavor Now — now to sit or never, By the side of the pale-faced moon. Oh, the bells, bells, bells! What a tale their terror tells Of despair! How they clang, and clash, and roar!

What a horror they outpour On 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 sinkinTM 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 clangor of the bells!

Hear the tolling of the bells —
Iron bells!

What a world of solemn thought their
monody compels!
In the silence of the night,
How we shiver with attright
At the melancholy menace of their
tone!

For every sound that floats
From the rust within theirthroats

is 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 their rolling
On 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,
Rolls

A paean from the bells!
And his merry bosom swells

With 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, time,
In 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.

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, [you Was but the mother of myself; but 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 soullife.

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 name Lenore —

Nameless here for ever more.

POE.

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 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 the 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.
"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 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 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 upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door.

With such name as " Nevermore."

But the Raven, sitting lonely on that placid bust, spoke only
That 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 flown before —
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 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, ghastly, 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 lining that the lamp-light gloated o'er,
But whose velvet violet lining with the lamplight gloating o'er,

She shall press, ah, nevermore!

Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer
Swung by seraphim whose footfalls tinkled on the tufted floor.
"Wretch," I cried, "thy God hath lent thee — by these angels he hath
sent thee

Respite — 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 adore —
Tell 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! 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!

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