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 And this was the reason that, long ago, A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling In this kingdom by the sea. The angels, not half so happy in heaven, Yes! that was the reason (as all men know, That the wind came out of the cloud by night, But our love it was stronger by far than the love Of many far wiser than we And neither the angels in heaven above, 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 In her tomb by the sounding sea. B TO MY MOTHER. ECAUSE I feel that, in the Heavens above, Can find, among their burning terms of love, Therefore by that dear name I long have called you - And fill my heart of hearts, where Death installed you, Was but the mother of myself; but you 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 own soul-life. THE HAUNTED PALACE. N the greenest of our valleys. Radiant palace-reared its head. In the monarch Thought's dominion It stood there! Never seraph spread a pinion A wingèd odor went away. Wanderers in that happy valley, Through two luminous windows, saw Spirits moving musically, To a lute's well-tunèd law, (Porphyrogene!) In state his glory well befitting, The ruler of the realm was seen. 5 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, And travellers, now, within that valley, While, like a ghastly rapid river, A hideous throng rush out forever And laugh - but smile no more. THE CONQUEROR WORM. O! 't is 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 Mimes, in the form of God on high, Mere puppets they, who come and go 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 more of Sin, And Horror the soul of the plot. |