Part 7 — EDGAR ALLAN POE

HELEN, thy beauty is to me Like those Nicèan barks of yore That gently, o’er a perfumed sea, The weary way-worn wanderer bore To his own native shore. On desperate seas long wont to roam, Thy hyacinth hair, thy classic face, Thy Naiad airs have brought me home To the glory that was Greece, And the grandeur that was Rome. Lo, in yon brilliant window-niche How statue-like I see thee stand, The agate lamp within thy hand, Ah! Psyche, from the regions which Are holy land!

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 wingèd 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 high-born 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 one 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.

THANK Heaven! the crisis— The danger is past, And the lingering illness Is over at last— And the fever called ‘Living’ Is conquer’d 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 madden’d my brain— With the fever called ‘Living’ That burn’d in my brain. And O! of all tortures That torture the worst Has abated—the terrible Torture of thirst For the naphthaline river Of Passion accurst— I have drunk 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 odour About it, of pansies— A rosemary odour, 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— Drown’d in a bath Of the tresses of Annie. She tenderly kiss’d me, She fondly caress’d, And then I fell gently To sleep on her breast— Deeply to sleep From the heaven of her breast. When the light was extinguish’d, She cover’d me warm, And she pray’d 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.