Edgar Allan Poe Poems






















For Annie

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 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 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 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 foretells!
          Through the balmy air of night
          How they ring out their delight!
            From the molten-golden notes,
                  And an 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 twanging,
                  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, bells, 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 muffled monotone,
          Feel a glory in so rolling
            On the human heart a stone-
          They are neither man nor woman-
          They are neither brute nor human-
                  They are Ghouls:
            And their king it is who tolls;
            And he 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.
The Haunted Palace
In the greenest of our valleys
        By good angels tenanted,
      Once a fair and stately palace-
        Radiant palace- reared its head.
      In the monarch Thought's dominion-
        It stood there!
      Never seraph spread a pinion
        Over fabric half so fair!

      Banners yellow, glorious, golden,
        On its roof did float and flow,
      (This- all this- was in the olden
        Time long ago,)
      And every gentle air that dallied,
        In that sweet day,
      Along the ramparts plumed and pallid,
        A winged odor went away.

      Wanderers in that happy valley,
        Through two luminous windows, saw
      Spirits moving musically,
        To a lute's well-tuned law,
      Round about a throne where, sitting
      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,
        Assailed the monarch's high estate.
      (Ah, let us mourn!- for never morrow
        Shall dawn upon him desolate!)
      And round about his home the glory
        That blushed and bloomed,
      Is but a dim-remembered story
        Of the old time entombed.

      And travellers, now, within that valley,
        Through the red-litten windows see
      Vast forms, that move fantastically
        To a discordant melody,
      While, like a ghastly rapid river,
        Through the pale door
      A hideous throng rush out forever
        And laugh- but smile no more.       
In Youth I have Known One
How often we forget all time, when lone
Admiring Nature's universal throne;
Her woods - her winds - her mountains - the intense
Reply of Hers to Our intelligence!

In youth I have known one with whom the Earth
 In secret communing held - as he with it,
In daylight, and in beauty, from his birth:
 Whose fervid, flickering torch of life was lit
From the sun and stars, whence he had drawn forth
 A passionate light - such for his spirit was fit -
And yet that spirit knew - not in the hour
Of its own fervour - what had o'er it power.

Perhaps it may be that my mind is wrought
 To a fever by the moonbeam that hangs o'er,
But I will half believe that wild light fraught
 With more of sovereignty than ancient lore
Hath ever told - or is it of a thought
 The unembodied essence, and no more
That with a quickening spell doth o'er us pass
As dew of the night time, o'er the summer grass?


Doth o'er us pass, when as th' expanding eye
 To the loved object - so the tear to the lid
Will start, which lately slept in apathy?
 And yet it need not be - (that object) hid
From us in life - but common - which doth lie
 Each hour before us - but then only bid
With a strange sound, as of a harpstring broken
T' awake us - 'Tis a symbol and a token -

Of what in other worlds shall be - and given
 In beauty by our God, to those alone
Who otherwise would fall from life and Heaven
 Drawn by their heart's passion, and that tone, 
The Conqueror Worm
Lo! 'tis a gala night
        Within the lonesome latter years!
      An angel throng, bewinged, bedight
        In veils, and drowned in tears,
      Sit in a theatre, to see
        A play of hopes and fears,
      While the orchestra breathes fitfully
        The music of the spheres.

      Mimes, in the form of God on high,
        Mutter and mumble low,
      And hither and thither fly-
        Mere puppets they, who come and go
      At bidding of vast formless things
        That shift the scenery to and fro,
      Flapping from out their Condor wings
        Invisible Woe!

      That motley drama- oh, be sure
        It shall not be forgot!
      With its Phantom chased for evermore,
        By a crowd that seize it not,
      Through a circle that ever returneth in
        To the self-same spot,
      And much of Madness, and more of Sin,
        And Horror the soul of the plot.

      But see, amid the mimic rout
        A crawling shape intrude!
      A blood-red thing that writhes from out
        The scenic solitude!
      It writhes!- it writhes!- with mortal pangs
        The mimes become its food,
      And seraphs sob at vermin fangs
        In human gore imbued.

      Out- out are the lights- out all!
        And, over each quivering form,
      The curtain, a funeral pall,
        Comes down with the rush of a storm,
      While the angels, all pallid and wan,
        Uprising, unveiling, affirm
      That the play is the tragedy, "Man,"
        And its hero the Conqueror Worm.
By a route obscure and lonely,
Haunted by ill angels only,
Where an Eidolon, named NIGHT,
On a black throne reigns upright,
I have reached these lands but newly
From an ultimate dim Thule-
From a wild clime that lieth, sublime,
Out of SPACE- out of TIME.

Bottomless vales and boundless floods,
And chasms, and caves, and Titan woods,
With forms that no man can discover
For the tears that drip all over;
Mountains toppling evermore
Into seas without a shore;
Seas that restlessly aspire,
Surging, unto skies of fire;
Lakes that endlessly outspread
Their lone waters- lone and dead,-
Their still waters- still and chilly
With the snows of the lolling lily.

By the lakes that thus outspread
Their lone waters, lone and dead,-
Their sad waters, sad and chilly
With the snows of the lolling lily,-
By the mountains- near the river
Murmuring lowly, murmuring ever,-
By the grey woods,- by the swamp
Where the toad and the newt encamp-
By the dismal tarns and pools
Where dwell the Ghouls,-
By each spot the most unholy-
In each nook most melancholy-
There the traveller meets aghast
Sheeted Memories of the Past-
Shrouded forms that start and sigh
As they pass the wanderer by-
White-robed forms of friends long given,
In agony, to the Earth- and Heaven.

For the heart whose woes are legion
'Tis a peaceful, soothing region-
For the spirit that walks in shadow
'Tis- oh, 'tis an Eldorado!
But the traveller, travelling through it,
May not- dare not openly view it!
Never its mysteries are exposed
To the weak human eye unclosed;
So wills its King, who hath forbid
The uplifting of the fringed lid;
And thus the sad Soul that here passes
Beholds it but through darkened glasses.

By a route obscure and lonely,
Haunted by ill angels only,
Where an Eidolon, named NIGHT,
On a black throne reigns upright,
I have wandered home but newly
From this ultimate dim Thule.
The Raven
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 again I heard 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 a
minute 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 marvelled 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 blest 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 further 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 fancy 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 methought the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer
Swung by Seraphim whose footfalls 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 in parting, bird or fiend," I shrieked,
"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 lamplight 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!
The skies they were ashen and sober;
     The leaves they were crispéd and sere—
    The leaves they were withering and sere;
  It was night in the lonesome October
    Of my most immemorial year;
  It was hard by the dim lake of Auber,
    In the misty mid region of Weir—
  It was down by the dank tarn of Auber,
     In the ghoul-haunted woodland of Weir.

 Here once, through an alley Titanic,
   Of cypress, I roamed with my Soul—
   Of cypress, with Psyche, my Soul.
 These were days when my heart was volcanic
   As the scoriac rivers that roll—
   As the lavas that restlessly roll
  Their sulphurous currents down Yaanek
   In the ultimate climes of the pole—
 That groan as they roll down Mount Yaanek
   In the realms of the boreal pole.

 Our talk had been serious and sober,
   But our thoughts they were palsied and sere—
   Our memories were treacherous and sere—
 For we knew not the month was October,
   And we marked not the night of the year—
   (Ah, night of all nights in the year!)
 We noted not the dim lake of Auber—
   (Though once we had journeyed down here)—
 We remembered not the dank tarn of Auber,
    Nor the ghoul-haunted woodland of Weir.

 And now, as the night was senescent
   And star-dials pointed to morn—
   As the star-dials hinted of morn—
 At the end of our path a liquescent
   And nebulous lustre was born,
 Out of which a miraculous crescent
   Arose with a duplicate horn—
 Astarte's bediamonded crescent
   Distinct with its duplicate horn.

 And I said—"She is warmer than Dian:
   She rolls through an ether of sighs—
   She revels in a region of sighs:
 She has seen that the tears are not dry on
   These cheeks, where the worm never dies,
 And has come past the stars of the Lion
   To point us the path to the skies—
   To the Lethean peace of the skies—
 Come up, in despite of the Lion,
   To shine on us with her bright eyes—
 Come up through the lair of the Lion,
   With love in her luminous eyes."

 But Psyche, uplifting her finger,
   Said—"Sadly this star I mistrust—
   Her pallor I strangely mistrust:—
 Oh, hasten! oh, let us not linger!
   Oh, fly!—let us fly!—for we must."
 In terror she spoke, letting sink her
   Wings till they trailed in the dust—
 In agony sobbed, letting sink her
   Plumes till they trailed in the dust—
   Till they sorrowfully trailed in the dust.

 I replied—"This is nothing but dreaming:
   Let us on by this tremulous light!
   Let us bathe in this crystalline light!
 Its Sybilic splendor is beaming
   With Hope and in Beauty to-night:—
   See!—it flickers up the sky through the night!
 Ah, we safely may trust to its gleaming,
   And be sure it will lead us aright—
 We safely may trust to a gleaming
   That cannot but guide us aright,
   Since it flickers up to Heaven through the night."

 Thus I pacified Psyche and kissed her,
   And tempted her out of her gloom—
   And conquered her scruples and gloom:
 And we passed to the end of the vista,
   But were stopped by the door of a tomb—
   By the door of a legended tomb;
 And I said—"What is written, sweet sister,
   On the door of this legended tomb?"
   She replied—"Ulalume—Ulalume—
   'Tis the vault of thy lost Ulalume!"

 Then my heart it grew ashen and sober
   As the leaves that were crispèd and sere—
   As the leaves that were withering and sere,
 And I cried—"It was surely October
   On this very night of last year
   That I journeyed—I journeyed down here—
   That I brought a dread burden down here—
   On this night of all nights in the year,
   Oh, what demon has tempted me here?
 Well I know, now, this dim lake of Auber—
   This misty mid region of Weir—
 Well I know, now, this dank tarn of Auber—
   In the ghoul-haunted woodland of Weir."

 Said we, then—the two, then—"Ah, can it
   Have been that the woodlandish ghouls—
   The pitiful, the merciful ghouls—
 To bar up our way and to ban it
   From the secret that lies in these wolds—
    From the thing that lies hidden in these wolds—
 Had drawn up the spectre of a planet
   From the limbo of lunary souls—
 This sinfully scintillant planet
   From the Hell of the planetary souls?"
To Helen - 1848
I saw thee once &mdash once only &mdash years ago:
I must not say how many &mdash 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 upturned faces of a thousand
Roses that grew in an enchanted garden,
Where no wind dared to stir, unless on tiptoe &mdash
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 &mdash
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 thine own, upturn'd &mdash alas, in sorrow!

Was it not Fate, that, on this July midnight &mdash
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 an slept,
Save only thee and me. (Oh, Heaven! &mdash oh, God!
How my heart beats in coupling those two words!)
Save only thee and me. I paused &mdash I looked &mdash
And in an instant all things disappeared.
(Ah, bear in mind this garden was enchanted!)

The pearly lustre 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 &mdash save less than thou:
Save only the divine light in thine eyes &mdash
Save but the soul in thine uplifted eyes.
I saw but them &mdash they were the world to me!
I saw but them &mdash saw only them for hours,
Saw only them until the moon went down.
What wild heart-histories seemed to he enwritten
Upon those crystalline, celestial spheres!
How dark a woe, yet how sublime a hope!
How silently serene a sea of pride!
How daring an ambition; yet how deep &mdash
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 &mdash they lead me through the years.
They are my ministers &mdash yet I their slave.
Their office is to illumine and enkindle &mdash
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 &mdash 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 &mdash 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 kinsman 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.

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Edgar Allan Poe Poems