Selections from American poetry Part 12

"Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!" I shrieked, upstarting-- "Get thee back into the tempest and the Night's Plutonian sh.o.r.e!

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 dust 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!

TO HELEN

I saw thee once--once only--years ago I must not say how many--but not many.

It was a July midnight; and from out A full-orbed moon, that, like thine own soul, soaring, Sought a precipitate pathway up through heaven, There fell a silvery-silken veil of light, With quietude and sultriness and slumber, Upon the upturn'd faces of a thousand Roses that grew in an enchanted garden, Where no wind dared to stir, unless on tiptoe-- Fell on the upturn'd faces of these roses That gave out, in return for the love-light, Their odorous souls in an ecstatic death-- Fell on the upturn'd faces of these roses That smiled and died in this parterre, enchanted By thee, and by the poetry of thy presence.

Clad all in white, upon a violet bank I saw thee half reclining; while the moon Fell on the upturn'd faces of the roses, And on throe own, upturn'd--alas, in sorrow!

Was it not Fate, that, on this July midnight-- Was it not Fate, (whose name is also Sorrow), That bade me pause before that garden-gate, To breathe the incense of those slumbering roses?

No footstep stirred: the hated world all slept, Save only thee and me. (Oh, heaven!--oh, G.o.d!

How my heart beats in coupling those two words!) Save only thee and me. I paused--I looked-- And in an instant all things disappeared.

(Ah, bear in mind this garden was enchanted!) The pearly l.u.s.tre of the moon went out: The mossy banks and the meandering paths, The happy flowers and the repining trees, Were seen no more: the very roses' odors Died in the arms of the adoring airs.

All--all expired save thee--save less than thou: Save only the divine light in throe eyes-- Save but the soul in throe uplifted eyes.

I saw but them--they were the world to me.

I saw but them--saw only them for hours-- Saw only there until the moon went down.

What wild heart-histories seemed to lie enwritten

Upon those crystalline, celestial spheres!

How dark a wo! yet how sublime a hope!

How silently serene a sea of pride!

How daring an ambition! yet how deep-- How fathomless a capacity for love!

But now, at length, dear Dian sank from sight, Into a western couch of thunder-cloud; And thou, a ghost, amid the entombing trees Didst glide away. Only thine eyes remained.

They would not go--they never yet have gone.

Lighting my lonely pathway home that night, They have not left me (as my hopes have) since.

They follow me--they lead me through the years-- They are my ministers--yet I their slave.

Their office is to illumine and enkindle-- My duty, to be saved by their bright light, And purified in their electric fire, And sanctified in their elysian fire.

They fill my soul with Beauty (which is Hope), And are far up in Heaven--the stars I kneel to In the sad, silent watches of my night; While even in the meridian glare of day I see them still--two sweetly scintillant Venuses, unextinguished by the sun!

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 kinsmen 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 BELLS

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 tintinnabulation that so musically wells From the bells, bells, bells, bells, Bells, bells, bells-- From the jingling and the tinkling of the bells.

Hear the mellow wedding bells, Golden bells!

What a world of happiness their harmony foretell: 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!

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 tw.a.n.ging, 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, belts, bells-- In the clamor and the clangor of the bells!

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 m.u.f.fled monotone, Feel a glory in so rolling,

On the human heart a stone-- They are neither man or 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.