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 lamplght 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 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!
Published 1845.
THE BELLS.
I.
HEAR 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.
II.
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 swinging 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!
III.
Hear the loud alarum bells-- Brazen bells! What 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 sinking or the swelling in the anger of the bells-- Of the bells-- Of the bells, bells, bells, bells, Bells, bells, bells-- In the clamour and the clangour of the bells!
IV.
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 affright At the melancholy meaning of their tone! For every sound that floats From the rust within their throats 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 so 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, 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.
1849.
ULALUME
The skies they were ashen and sober; The leaves they were crisped and sere-- The leaves they were withering and sere; It was night in the lonesome October Of my most immemorial year: It was hard by the dim lake of Auber, In the misty mid region of Weir:-- It was down by the dank tarn of Auber, In the ghoul-haunted woodland of Weir.
Here once, through an alley Titanic, Of cypress, I roamed with my Soul-- Of cypress, with Psyche, my Soul. There were days when my heart was volcanic As the scoriac rivers that roll-- As the lavas that restlessly roll Their sulphurous currents down Yaanek, In the ultimate climes of the Pole-- That groan as they roll down Mount Yaanek In the realms of the Boreal Pole.
Our talk had been serious and sober, But our thoughts they were palsied and sere-- Our memories were treacherous and sere; For we knew not the month was October, And we marked not the night of the year-- (Ah, night of all nights in the year!) We noted not the dim lake of Auber, (Though once we had journeyed down here) We remembered not the dank tarn of Auber, Nor the ghoul-haunted woodland of Weir.
And now, as the night was senescent, And star-dials pointed to morn-- As the star-dials hinted of morn-- At the end of our path a liquescent And nebulous lustre was born, Out of which a miraculous crescent Arose with a duplicate horn-- Astarte's bediamonded crescent, Distinct with its duplicate horn.
And I said--"She is warmer than Dian: She rolls through an ether of sighs-- She revels in a region of sighs. She has seen that the tears are not dry on These cheeks, where the worm never dies, And has come past the stars of the Lion, To point us the path to the skies-- To the Lethean peace of the skies-- Come up, in despite of the Lion, To shine on us with her bright eyes-- Come up, through the lair of the Lion, With love in her luminous eyes."
But Psyche, uplifting her finger, Said--"Sadly this star I mistrust-- Her pallor I strangely mistrust-- Ah, hasten!--ah, let us not linger! Ah, fly!--let us fly!--for we must." In terror she spoke; letting sink her Wings till they trailed in the dust-- In agony sobbed, letting sink her Plumes till they trailed in the dust-- Till they sorrowfully trailed in the dust.
I replied--"This is nothing but dreaming. Let us on, by this tremulous light! Let us bathe in this crystalline light! Its Sybillic splendor is beaming With Hope and in Beauty to-night-- See!--it flickers up the sky through the night! Ah, we safely may trust to its gleaming, And be sure it will lead us aright-- We safely may trust to a gleaming That cannot but guide us aright, Since it flickers up to Heaven through the night."
Thus I pacified Psyche and kissed her, And tempted her out of her gloom-- And conquered her scruples and gloom; And we passed to the end of the vista-- But were stopped by the door of a tomb-- By the door of a legended tomb:-- And I said--"What is written, sweet sister, On the door of this legended tomb?" She replied--"Ulalume--Ulalume-- 'T is the vault of thy lost Ulalume!"
Then my heart it grew ashen and sober As the leaves that were crisped and sere-- As the leaves that were withering and sere-- And I cried--"It was surely October On _this_ very night of last year, That I journeyed--I journeyed down here!-- That I brought a dread burden down here-- On this night, of all nights in the year, Ah, what demon has tempted me here? Well I know, now, this dim lake of Auber-- This misty mid region of Weir:-- Well I know, now, this dank tarn of Auber-- This ghoul-haunted woodland of Weir."
1847.
TO HELEN
I saw thee once--once only--years ago: I must not say how many--but not many. It was a July midnight; and from out A full-orbed moon, that, like thine own soul, soaring, Sought a precipitate pathway up through heaven, There fell a silvery-silken veil of light, With quietude, and sultriness, and slumber, Upon the upturned faces of a thousand Roses that grew in an enchanted garden, Where no wind dared to stir, unless on tiptoe-- Fell on the upturn'd faces of these roses That gave out, in return for the love-light, Their odorous souls in an ecstatic death-- Fell on the upturn'd faces of these roses That smiled and died in this parterre, enchanted By thee, and by the poetry of thy presence.
Clad all in white, upon a violet bank I saw thee half reclining; while the moon Fell on the upturn'd faces of the roses, And on thine own, upturn'd--alas, in sorrow!
Was it not Fate, that, on this July midnight- Was it not Fate, (whose name is also Sorrow,) That bade me pause before that garden-gate, To breathe the incense of those slumbering roses? No footstep stirred: the hated world an slept, Save only thee and me. (Oh, Heaven!--oh, God! How my heart beats in coupling those two words!) Save only thee and me. I paused--I looked- And in an instant all things disappeared. (Ah, bear in mind this garden was enchanted!)
The pearly lustre of the moon went out: The mossy banks and the meandering paths, The happy flowers and the repining trees, Were seen no more: the very roses' odors Died in the arms of the adoring airs. All--all expired save thee--save less than thou: Save only the divine light in thine eyes- Save but the soul in thine uplifted eyes. I saw but them--they were the world to me! I saw but them--saw only them for hours, Saw only them until the moon went down. What wild heart-histories seemed to he enwritten
Upon those crystalline, celestial spheres! How dark a woe, yet how sublime a hope! How silently serene a sea of pride! How daring an ambition; yet how deep- How fathomless a capacity for love!
But now, at length, dear Dian sank from sight, Into a western couch of thunder-cloud; And thou, a ghost, amid the entombing trees Didst glide away. Only thine eyes remained; They would not go--they never yet have gone; Lighting my lonely pathway home that night, They have not left me (as my hopes have) since; They follow me--they lead me through the years. They are my ministers--yet I their slave. Their office is to illumine and enkindle-- My duty, to be saved by their bright light, And purified in their electric fire, And sanctified in their elysian fire. They fill my soul with Beauty (which is Hope), And are far up in Heaven--the stars I kneel to In the sad, silent watches of my night; While even in the meridian glare of day I see them still--two sweetly scintillant Venuses, unextinguished by the sun!
ANNABEL LEE.
It was many and many a year ago, In a kingdom by the sea, That a maiden 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, A wind blew out of a cloud by night Chilling my ANNABEL LEE; So that her high-born 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, chilling And killing my ANNABEL LEE.
&n
bsp; 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 see 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 side of the sea.
1849.
A VALENTINE.
For her this rhyme is penned, whose luminous eyes, Brightly expressive as the twins of Loeda, Shall find her own sweet name, that, nestling lies Upon the page, enwrapped from every reader. Search narrowly the lines!--they hold a treasure Divine--a talisman--an amulet That must be worn _at heart_. Search well the measure-- The words--the syllables! Do not forget The trivialest point, or you may lose your labor! And yet there is in this no Gordian knot
Which one might not undo without a sabre, If one could merely comprehend the plot. Enwritten upon the leaf where now are peering Eyes scintillating soul, there lie _perdus_ Three eloquent words oft uttered in the hearing Of poets, by poets--as the name is a poet's, too. Its letters, although naturally lying Like the knight Pinto--Mendez Ferdinando-- Still form a synonym for Truth--Cease trying! You will not read the riddle, though you do the best _you_ can do.
The Works of Edgar Allan Poe — Volume 5 Page 15
