Poetical Works of Edgar Allan Poe

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!

t 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 muffled monotone,

Feel a glory in so rolling

On the human heart a stoneThey are neither man nor womanThey are neither brute nor humanThey are Ghouls :

And their king it is who tolls;
And he rolls, rolls, rolls,
Rolls

A
pæan from the bells!
And his merry bosom swells
With the pæan of the bells!
And he dances, and he yells;
Keeping time, time, time,
In a sort of Runic rhyme,
To the pæan of the bells-
Of the bells :

AN EN

Keeping time, ti
In a sort of Run

To the throbb
Of the bells, bel
To the sobbin
Keeping time, t
As he knells,
In a happy Run
To the rolling
Of the bells, bel
To the tolling
Of the bells, bells
To the moaning and t
Bells, bells

"SELDOM we find," s "Half an ideal in t Through all the flims As easily as throug Trash of all trash Yet heavier far than Owl-downy nonsens Twirls into trunkAnd, veritably, Sol i The general tuckern Bubbles-ephemeral But this is, no itStable, opaque, im

Of the dear names

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.

AN ENIGMA.

"SELDOM we find," says Solomon Don Dunce,
"Half an ideal in the profoundest sonnet.
Through all the flimsy things we see at once
As easily as through a Naples bonnet-
Trash of all trash!-how can a lady don it?
Yet heavier far than your Petrarchan stuff-
Owl-downy nonsense that the faintest puff
Twirls into trunk-paper the while you con it."
And, veritably, Sol is right enough.
The general tuckermanities are arrant
Bubbles-ephemeral and so transparent-

But this is, now, you may depend upon
it-

Stable, opaque, immortal-all by dint

Of the dear names that lie concealed within 't.

ANNABEL LEE.

as many and many a year ago, In a kingdom by the sea,

a maiden there lived whom you may know

By the name of ANNABEL LEE;

this maiden she lived with no other thought

Than to love and be loved by me.

s a child and she was a child,

In this kingdom by the sea

we loved with a love that was more than love

I and my ANNabel Lee;

a love that the winged seraphs of heaven Coveted her and me.

this was the reason that, long ago, In this kingdom by the sea, nd blew out of a cloud, chilling My beautiful ANNABEL LEE; at her high born kinsman came And bore her away from me, hut her up in a sepulcher

In this kingdom by the sea.

ANNA

The angels, not half Went envying

Yes!-that was the In this kingdo That the wind came Chilling and

But our love it was
love

Of those who
Of many far v
And neither the ang
Nor the demo
Can ever dissever m
Of the beautif

For the moon never me dreams

Of the beauti And the stars never eyes

Of the beauti And so, all the nig side

Of my darling-my
bride

In the sepulc
In her tomb 1

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

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