Edgar Allan Poe
T o O n e i n P a r a d i s e Thou wast that all to me love For which my soul did pine. A green isle in the sea love, A fountain and a shrine, All wreathed in faery fruits and flowers And all the flowers were mine. Ah, dreams to bright to last. Starry hope that did arise But to be o'er cast. A voice from out the future cries On, on, but o'er the past. Dim gulf my spirit hovering lies, Mute, Motionless, Aghast. For alas, alas, within me The light of life is over. No more, no more, no more Such language holds the solemn sea To the sands upon the shore. Shall bloom the thunder blasted tree? Or the stricken eagle soar? And all my days are trances, And all my nightly dreams Are where thy grey eye glances, And where thy footstep gleams. In what ethereal dances? By what eternal streams? A D r e a m W i t h i n A D r e a m Take this kiss upon the brow And in parting from you now Thus much, let me avow You are not wrong to deem That my days have been a dream And 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 As I stand amid the roar Of the surf-tormented shore And I hold within my hands Grains of the golden sand How few, yet how they creep Through my fingers to the deep While I weep, while I weep Oh God, can I not grasp them With a tighter clasp Oh God, can I not save One from this pitiless wave Is all that we see or seem But a dream within a dream F o r A n n i e Thank Heaven! the crisis- The danger is past, And the lingering illness Is over at last - And the fever called "Living" Is conquered at last. Sadly, I know I am shorn of my strength, And no muscle I move As I lie at full length - But no matter! - I feel I am better at length. And I rest so composedly, Now, in my bed, That any beholder Might fancy me dead - Might start at beholding me, Thinking me dead. The sickness - the nausea - The pitiless pain - Have ceased, with the fever That maddened my brain - With the fever called "Living" That burned in my brain. The moaning, the groaning, The sighing, the sobbing, Are quieted now; with Horrible throbbing At heart: O, that horrible, Horrible throbbing! And ah! of all tortures That torture the worst Has abated - the terrible Torture of thirst For the naphthalene river Of Glory accurst - I have drank of a water That quenches all thirst Of a water that flows, With a lullaby sound, From a fountain a very few Feet under ground - From a cavern not very far Down under ground. And ah! let it never Be foolishly said That my room is gloomy And narrow my bed; For man never slept In a different bed - And, to sleep, you must slumber In just such a bed. My tantalized spirit Here blandly reposes, Forgetting, or never Regretting its roses - Its old agitations Of myrtles and Roses For now, while so quietly Lying, it fancies A holier odor About it, of pansies - A rosemary odor, Commingled with pansies - With rue and the beautiful Puritan pansies. And so it lies happily, Bathing in many A dream of the love And the beauty of Annie - Drowned in a bath Of the tresses of Annie She tenderly kissed me, She fondly caressed, And then I fell gently To sleep on her breast - Deeply to sleep From the heaven of her breast. When the light was extinguished, She covered me warm, And prayed to the angels To keep me from harm - To the queen of the angels To shield me from harm. And I lie so composedly, Now, in my bed, (knowing her love) That you fancy me dead - And I rest so contentedly, Now in my bed, (with her love at my breast) That you fancy me dead - That you shudder to look at me, Thinking me dead But my heart is brighter Than all of the many Stars of the heaven For it sparkles with Annie - It glows with the fire Of the love of my Annie - With the thought of the light Of the eyes of my Annie. A l o n e From childhood's hour I have not been As others were - I have not seen As others saw - I could not bring My passions from a common spring - From the same scource I have not taken My sorrow - I could not awaken My heart to joy at the same tone - And all I lov'd - I lov'd alone - Then - in my childhood - in the dawn Of a most stormy life - was drawn From ev'ry depth of good and ill The mystery which binds me still - From the torrent, or the fountain - From the red clif of the mountain - From the sun that 'round me roll'd In its autumn tint of gold - From the lightning in the sky As it pass'd me flying by - From the thunder and the storm - And the cloud that took the form (When the rest of Heaven was blue) Of a demon in my view. T h e R a v e n 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 sour 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 the 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 its 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 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 has 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 shadows on the floor; And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor Shall be lifted--nevermore! |