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 mortals
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 I heard again 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 an instant 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 marveled 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 the 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 lamplight gloated o’er,
but whose velvet violet lining
with the lamplight gloating o’er,
she shall press, ah, nevermore!
Then, me thought, the air grew denser,
perfumed from an unseen censer
swung by Angels whose faint foot-falls
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!
Alfred, Lord Tennyson (1809 – 1892)
Come Not, When I am Dead1
Come not, when I am dead,
to drop thy foolish tears upon my grave,
to trample round my fallen head,
and vex the unhappy dust thou wouldst not save.
but thou, go by.
Child, if it were thine error or thy crime
I care no longer, being all unblest:
wed whom thou wilt, but I am sick of Time,
and I desire to rest.
Pass on, weak heart, and leave me where I lie:
go by, go by.
Home They Brought Her Warrior Dead2
Home they brought her warrior dead:
she nor swooned, nor uttered cry:
all her maidens, watching, said,
‘She must weep or she will die.’
Then they praised him, soft and low,
called him worthy to be loved,
truest friend and noblest foe;
yet she neither spoke nor moved.
Stole a maiden from her place,
lightly to the warrior stepped,
took the face-cloth from the face;
yet she neither moved nor wept.
Rose a nurse of ninety years,
set his child upon her knee—
like summer tempest came her tears—
‘Sweet my child, I live for thee.’
The Charge of the Light Brigade1
Half a league, half a league,
half a league onward,
all in the valley of Death
rode the six hundred.
‘Forward, the Light Brigade!
Charge for the guns!’ he said:
into the valley of Death
rode the six hundred.
‘Forward, the Light Brigade!’
Was there a man dismayed?
Not tho’ the soldier knew
some one had blunderëd:
their’s not to make reply,
their’s not to reason why,
their’s but to do and die:
into the valley of Death
rode the six hundred.
Cannon to right of them,
cannon to left of them,
cannon in front of them
volleyed and thundered;
stormed at with shot and shell,
boldly they rode and well,
into the jaws of Death,
into the mouth of Hell
rode the six hundred.
Flashed all their sabers bare,
flashed as they turned in air
sabring the gunners there,
charging an army, while
all the world wondered:
plunged in the battery-smoke
right thro’ the line they broke;
Cossack and Russian
reeled from the sabre-stroke
shattered and sundered.
Then they rode back, but not
not the six hundred.
Cannon to right of them,
cannon to left of them,
cannon behind them
volleyed and thundered;
stormed at with shot and shell,
while horse and hero fell,
they that had fought so well
came thro’ the jaws of Death,
back from the mouth of Hell,
all that was left of them,
left of six hundred.
When can their glory fade?
O the wild charge they made!
All the world wondered.
Honor the charge they made!
Honor the Light Brigade,
noble six hundred!
Vivien’s Song1
…In Love, if Love be Love, if Love be ours,
faith and unfaith can ne’er be equal powers:
unfaith in aught is want of faith in all.
…It is the little rift within the lute,
that by and by will make the music mute,
and ever widening slowly silence all.
…The little rift within the lover’s lute,
or little pitted speck in garnered fruit,
that rotting inward slowly molders all.
…It is not worth the keeping: let it go;
but shall it? answer, darling, answer, no.
And trust me not at all or all in all.
Robert Browning (1812 – 1889)
A Toccata of Galuppi’s1
Oh Galuppi Baldassare,
this is very sad to find!
I can hardly misconceive you;
it would prove me deaf and blind;
but although I take your meaning,
‘tis with such a heavy mind!
Here you come with your old music,
and here’s all the good it brings.
What, they lived once thus at Venice
where the merchants were the kings,
where Saint Mark’s is, where the Doges
used to wed the sea with rings?
Ay, because the sea’s the street there;
and ’tis arched by … what you call
… Shylock’s bridge with houses on it,
where they kept the carnival:
I was never out of England
—it’s as if I saw it all.
Did young people take their pleasure
when the sea was warm in May?
Balls and masks begun at midnight,
burning ever to mid-day,
when they made up fresh adventures
for the morrow, do you say?
Was a lady such a lady,
cheeks so round and lips so red,—
on her neck the small face buoyant,
like a bell-flower on its bed,
o’er the breast’s superb abundance
where a man might base his head?
Well, and it was graceful of them—
they’d break talk off and afford
—She, to bite her mask’s black velvet—
he, to finger on his sword,
while you sat and played Toccatas,
stately at the clavichord?
What? Those lesser thirds so plaintive,
sixths diminished, sigh on sigh,
told them something? Those suspensions,
those solutions—“Must we die?”
those commiserating sevenths—
“Life might last! we can but try!”
“Were you happy?” —“Yes.” —“And are you
still as happy?” —“Yes. And you?”
“Then, more kisses!” —“Did I stop them,
when a million seemed so few?”
Hark, the dominant’s persistence
till it must be answered to!
So, an octave struck the answer.
Oh, they praised you, I dare say!
“Brave Galuppi! that was music!
Good alike at grave and gay!
I can always leave off talking
when I hear a master play!”
Then they left you for their pleasure:
till in due time, one by one,
some with lives that came to nothing,
some with deeds as well undone,
death stepped tacitly and took them
where they never see the sun.
But when I sit down to reason,
think to take my stand nor swerve,
while I triumph o’er a secret
wrung from nature’s close reserve,
in you come with your cold music
till I creep thro’ every nerve.
Yes, you, like a ghostly cricket,
creaking where a house was burned:
“Dust and ashes, dead and done with,
Venice spent what Venice earned.
The soul, doubtless, is immortal—
where a soul can be discerned.”
“Yours for instance: you know physics,
something of geology,
mathematics are your pastime;
souls shall rise in their degree;
Butterflies may dread extinction, —
you’ll not die, it cannot be!”
As for Venice and her people,
merely born to bloom and drop,
he
re on earth they bore their fruitage,
mirth and folly were the crop:
What of soul was left, I wonder,
when the kissing had to stop?
“Dust and ashes!” So you creak it,
and I want the heart to scold.
Dear dead women, with such hair, too—
what’s become of all the gold
used to hang and brush their bosoms?
I feel chilly and grown old.
Meeting at Night1
The grey sea and the long black land;
and the yellow half-moon large and low;
and the startled little waves that leap
in fiery ringlets from their sleep,
as I gain the cove with pushing prow,
and quench its speed in the slushy sand.
Then a mile of warm sea-scented beach;
three fields to cross till a farm appears;
a tap at the pane, the quick sharp scratch
and blue spurt of a lighted match,
and a voice less loud, thro’ its joys and fears,
than the two hearts beating each to each!
My Last Duchess2
That’s my last duchess painted on the wall,
looking as if she were alive. I call
that piece a wonder, now; Fra Pandolf’s hands
worked busily a day, and there she stands.
Will’t please you sit and look at her? I said
“Fra Pandolf” by design, for never read
strangers like you that pictured countenance,
that depth and passion of its earnest glance,
but to myself they turned (since none puts by
the curtain drawn for you, but I)
and seemed as they would ask me, if they durst,
how such a glance came there; so not the first
are you to turn and ask thus. Sir, ’t was not
her husband’s presence only, called that spot
of joy into the Duchess’ cheek: perhaps
fra Pandolf chanced to say “Her mantle laps
over my lady’s wrist too much” or “Paint
must never hope to reproduce the faint
half-flush that dies along her throat:” such stuff
was courtesy, she thought, and cause enough
for calling up that spot of joy. She had
a heart—how shall I say? —too soon made glad,
too easily impressed: she liked whate’er
she looked on, and her looks went everywhere.
Sir, ’t was all one! My favor at her breast,
the dropping of the daylight in the West,
The Giant Book of Poetry Page 14
