ANNABEL LEE. It was many and many a year ago, That a maiden there lived whom you may know 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, To shut her up in a sepulchre In this kingdom by the sea. The angels, not half so happy in heaven, 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 And the stars never rise, but I feel the bright eyes 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. TO MY MOTHER. BECAUSE I feel that, in the Heavens above, And fill my heart of hearts, where Death installed you My mother-my own mother, who died early, 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 soul-life. THE HAUNTED PALACE. In the greenest of our valleys In the monarch Thought's dominion- Never seraph spread a pinion Banners yellow, glorious, golden, 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, Of the old time entombed. And travellers, now, within that valley, To a discordant melody, A hideous throng rush out forever And laugh-bat smile no more. THE CONQUEROR WORM. Lo! 'tis a gala night Within the lonesome latter years! A play of hopes and fears, The music of the spheres. Mimes, in the form of God on high, And hither and thither fly— Mere puppets they, who come and go At bidding of vast formless things That motley drama-oh, be sure It shall not be forgot! With its Phantom chased for evermore, Through a circle that ever returneth in To the self-same spot, And much of Madness, and more of Sin, |