in this kingdom by the sea,
a wind blew out of a cloud by night
chilling my Annabel Lee;
so that her highborn kinsman came
and bore her away from me,
to shut her up in a sepulcher
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 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 her sepulcher there by the sea,
in her tomb by the side of the sea.
For Annie1
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 moaning and groaning,
the sighing and sobbing,
are quieted now,
with that horrible throbbing
at heart:—ah, that horrible,
horrible throbbing!
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.
And oh! of all tortures
that torture the worst
has abated—the terrible
torture of thirst
for the naphthalene river
of Passion accurst:—
I have drank of a water
that quenches all thirst:—
of a water that flows,
with a lullaby sound,
from a spring but 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 it 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 truth
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 she 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 it is brighter
than all of the many
stars in the sky,
for it sparkles with Annie—
it glows with the light
of the love of my Annie—
with the thought of the light
of the eyes of my Annie.
The Raven1
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 visitor,” 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 visitor entreating
entrance at my chamber door—
some late visitor 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 soul within me burning,
soon I heard again a tapping
somewhat 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 an instant 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 this 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 marveled 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 the placid bust, spoke only
that one word, as if his 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 lamplight gloated o’er,
but whose velvet violet lining
with the lamplight gloating o’er,
she shall press, ah, nevermore!
Then, me thought, the air grew denser,
perfumed from an unseen censer
swung by Angels whose faint 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 word 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 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
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 shadow on the floor;
and my soul from out that shadow
that lies floating on the floor
shall be lifted—nevermore!
Alfred, Lord Tennyson (1809 – 1892)
Come Not, When I am Dead1
Come not, when I am dead,
to drop thy foolish tears upon my grave,
to trample round my fallen head,
and vex the unhappy dust thou wouldst not save.
There let the wind sweep and the plover cry;
but thou, go by.
Child, if it were thine error or thy crime
I care no longer, being all unblest:
wed whom thou wilt, but I am sick of Time,
and I desire to rest.
Pass on, weak heart, and leave me where I lie:
go by, go by.
Home They Brought Her Warrior Dead2
Home they brought her warrior dead:
she nor swooned, nor uttered cry:
all her maidens, watching, said,
‘She must weep or she will die.’
Then they praised him, soft and low,
called him worthy to be loved,
truest friend and noblest foe;
yet she neither spoke nor moved.
Stole a maiden from her place,
lightly to the warrior stepped,
took the face-cloth from the face;
yet she neither moved nor wept.
Rose a nurse of ninety years,
set his child upon her knee—
like summer tempest came her tears—
‘Sweet my child, I live for thee.’
The Charge of the Light Brigade1
Half a league, half a league,
half a league onward,
all in the va
lley of Death
rode the six hundred.
‘Forward, the Light Brigade!
Charge for the guns!’ he said:
into the valley of Death
rode the six hundred.
‘Forward, the Light Brigade!’
Was there a man dismayed?
Not tho’ the soldier knew
some one had blunderëd:
their’s not to make reply,
their’s not to reason why,
their’s but to do and die:
into the valley of Death
rode the six hundred.
Cannon to right of them,
cannon to left of them,
cannon in front of them
volleyed and thundered;
stormed at with shot and shell,
boldly they rode and well,
into the jaws of Death,
into the mouth of Hell
rode the six hundred.
Flashed all their sabers bare,
flashed as they turned in air
sabring the gunners there,
charging an army, while
all the world wondered:
plunged in the battery-smoke
right thro’ the line they broke;
Cossack and Russian
reeled from the sabre-stroke
shattered and sundered.
Then they rode back, but not
not the six hundred.
Cannon to right of them,
cannon to left of them,
cannon behind them
volleyed and thundered;
stormed at with shot and shell,
while horse and hero fell,
they that had fought so well
came thro’ the jaws of Death,
back from the mouth of Hell,
all that was left of them,
left of six hundred.
When can their glory fade?
O the wild charge they made!
All the world wondered.
Honor the charge they made!
Honor the Light Brigade,
noble six hundred!
Vivien’s Song1
…In Love, if Love be Love, if Love be ours,
faith and unfaith can ne’er be equal powers:
unfaith in aught is want of faith in all.
…It is the little rift within the lute,
that by and by will make the music mute,
and ever widening slowly silence all.
…The little rift within the lover’s lute,
or little pitted speck in garnered fruit,
that rotting inward slowly molders all.
…It is not worth the keeping: let it go;
but shall it? answer, darling, answer, no.
And trust me not at all or all in all.
Robert Browning (1812 – 1889)
A Toccata of Galuppi’s1
Oh Galuppi Baldassare,
this is very sad to find!
I can hardly misconceive you;
it would prove me deaf and blind;
The Giant Book of Poetry (2006) Page 14