EDGAR ALLAN POE

 

*

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 visiter,” 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 evermore.

 

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 visiter entreating entrance at my chamber door—

Some late visiter 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 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 again I heard a tapping something 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 lamp-light gloating o’er

                  She shall press, ah, nevermore!

 

Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer
Swung by Seraphim whose 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!

 

*

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 Titantic,
      Of cypress, I roamed with my Soul—
      Of cypress, with Psyche, my Soul.
These 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 climcs 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)—
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:—
Oh, hasten!—oh, let us not linger!
      Oh, fly!—let us fly!—for we must.”
In terror she spoke, letting sink her
      Wings until 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 Sybilic 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—
      ’Tis 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.”

 

*

 

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 tintinabulation 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 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 sinking 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!

 

 

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 menace 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 muflied 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

            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.

 

*

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,

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 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 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 sepulchre there by the sea,
      In her tomb by the sounding sea.

 

*

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 wingéd odour went away.

 

Wanderers in that happy valley,
      Through two luminous windows, saw
Spirits moving musically,
      To a lute’s well-tunéd 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 monareh’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 travellers, now, within that valley,
      Through the red-litten windows see

Vast forms, that move fantastically
      To a 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 theatre, 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 Wo!

 

That motley 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 mor of Sin,

And Horror the soul of the plot.

 

But see, amid the mimic rout
      A crawling shape intrude!

A blood-red thing that writhes from out
      The scenic solitude!

It writhes!—it writhes!—with mortal pangs
      The mimes become its food,

And the angels sob at vermin fangs
      In human gore imbued.

 

Out—out are the lights—out all!

And, over each quivering form,

The curtain, a funeral pall,

Comes down with the rush of a storm,

And the angels, all pallid and wan,

Uprising, unveiling, affirm

That the play is the tragedy, “Man,”

And its hero the Conqueror Worm.

 

*

The City in the Sea

 

Lo! Death has reared himself a throne
In a strange city lying alone

Far down within the dim West,

Where the good and the bad and the worst and the best
Have gone to their eternal rest.

There shrines and palaces and towers
(Time-eaten towers that tremble not!)
Resemble nothing that is ours.

Around, by lifting winds forgot,
Resignedly beneath the sky

The melancholy waters lie.

 

No rays from the holy heaven come down
On the long night-time of that town;

But light from out the lurid sea

Streams up the turrets silently

Gleams up the pinnacles far and free—
Up domes—up spires—up kingly halls—
Up fanes—up Babylon-like walls—

Up shadowy long-forgotten bowers

Of sculptured ivy and stone flowers—
Up many and many a marvellous shrine
Whose wreathéd friezes interwine

The viol, the violet, and the vine.

 

Resignedly beneath the sky

The melancholy waters lie.

So blend the turrets and shadows there

That all seem pendulous in air,

While from a proud tower in the town

Death looks gigantically down.

 

There open fanes and gaping graves

Yawn level with the luminous waves;

But not the riches there that lie

In each idol’s diamond eye—

Not the gaily jeweled dead

Tempt the waters from their bed;

For no ripples curl, alas!

Along that wilderness of glass—

No swellings tell that winds may be

Upon some far-off happier sea—

No heavings hint that winds have been

On seas less hideously serene.

 

But lo, a stir is in the air!

The wave—there is a movement there!

As if the towers had thrust aside,

In slightly sinking the dull tide—

As if their tops had feebly given

A void within the filmy Heaven.

The waves have now a redder glow—

The hours are breathing faint and low—

And when, amid no earthly moans,

Down, down that town shall settle hence,

Hell, rising from a thousand thrones,

Shall do it reverence.

 

*

A Dream Within a Dream

 

Take this kiss upon the brow!
And, in parting from you now,
Thus much let me avow—
You are not wrong, who deem
That my days have been a dream;
Yet if hope has flown away_
In a night, or in a day,

In a vision, or in none,

Is it therefore the less gone?
All that we see or seem

Is but a dream within a dream.

 

I stand amid the roar

Of a surf-tormented shore,
And I hold within my hand
Grains of the golden sand—
How few! yet how they creep
Through my fingers to the deep,
While I weep—while I weep!
O God! can I not grasp
Them with a tighter clasp?

O God! can I not save

One from the pitiless wave?
Is all that we see or seem
But a dream within a dream?

 

*

Eldorado

 

Gaily bedight,

A gallant knight,

In sunshine and in shadow,

Had journeyed long,

Singing a song,

In search of Eldorado

 

But he grew old—

This knight so bold—

And o’er his heart a shadow

Fell as he found

No spot of ground

That looked like Eldorado

 

And, as his strength

Failed him at length,

He met a pilgrim shadow—

“Shadow,” said he,

“Where can it be—

This land of Eldorado?”

 

“Over the Mountains

Of the Moon,

Down the Valley of Shadow,

Ride boldly, ride,”

The shade replied, —

“If you seek for Eldorado!”