The Giant Book of Poetry (2006)

by William H. Roetzheim

  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;