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These trifles are collected and republished chiefly with a view to their redemption from the many improvements to which they have been subjected while going at random the "rounds of the press." I am naturally anxious that what I have written should circulate as I wrote it, if it circulate at all. In defence of my own taste, nevertheless, it is incumbent upon me to say that I think nothing in this volume of much value to the public, or very creditable to myself. Events not to be controlled have prevented me from making, at any time, any serious effort in what, under happier circumstances, would have been the field of my choice. With me poetry has been not a purpose, but a passion; and the passions should be held in reverence: they must not—they cannot at will be excited, with an eye to the paltry compensations, or the more paltry commendations, of mankind.1845. E. A. P.
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 borrowFrom 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 curtainThrilled 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 mortal ever dared to dream before;But the silence was unbroken, and the darkness 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 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 beingEver 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 that placid bust, spoke onlyThat 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 morrowhewill 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 DisasterFollowed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore—Till the dirges of his Hope the melancholy burden boreOf '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 linkingFancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore—What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yoreMeant in croaking "Nevermore."This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressingTo the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom's core;This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease recliningOn the cushion's velvet lining that the lamp-light gloated o'er,But whose velvet violet lining with the lamp-light gloating o'er,Sheshall press, ah, nevermore!Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censerSwung by Seraphim whose foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor."Wretch," I cried, "thy God hath lent thee—by these angels he hath sent theeRespite—respite and nepenthé from thy memories of Lenore!Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthé, 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—isthere 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 sittingOn 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 floorShall be lifted—nevermore!
Published, 1845.
Note
1849Note
The skies they were ashen and sober;The leaves they were crisped and sere—The leaves they were withering and sere;It was night in the lonesome OctoberOf 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 volcanicAs the scoriac rivers that roll—As the lavas that restlessly rollTheir sulphurous currents down YaanekIn the ultimate climes of the pole—That groan as they roll down Mount YaanekIn 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)—Remembered not the dank tarn of Auber,Nor the ghoul-haunted woodland of Weir.And now as the night was senescentAnd star-dials pointed to morn—As the sun-dials hinted of morn—At the end of our path a liquescentAnd nebulous lustre was born,Out of which a miraculous crescentArose with a duplicate horn—Astarte's bediamonded crescentDistinct 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 onThese cheeks, where the worm never dies,And has come past the stars of the LionTo 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 herWings till they trailed in the dust—In agony sobbed, letting sink herPlumes 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 Sibyllic splendor is beamingWith 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 gleamingThat 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 a 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 soberAs the leaves that were crisped and sere—As the leaves that were withering and sere;And I cried—"It was surely OctoberOnthisvery night of last yearThat I journeyed—I journeyed down here—That I brought a dread burden down here!On this night of all nights in the year,Ah, 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,—This ghoul-haunted woodland of Weir."1847Note
I saw thee once—once only—years ago:I must not sayhowmany—butnotmany.It was a July midnight; and from outA 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 thousandRoses that grew in an enchanted garden,Where no wind dared to stir, unless on tiptoe—Fell on the upturn'd faces of these rosesThat gave out, in return for the love-light,Their odorous souls in an ecstatic death—Fell on the upturn'd faces of these rosesThat smiled and died in this parterre, enchantedBy thee, and by the poetry of thy presence.Clad all in white, upon a violet bankI saw thee half-reclining; while the moonFell on the upturn'd faces of the roses,And on thine 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—(O Heaven!—O God!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 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' odorsDied in the arms of the adoring airs.All—all expired save thee—save less than thou:Save only the divine light in thine eyes—Save but the soul in thine uplifted eyes.I saw but them—they were the world to me.I saw but them—saw only them for hours—Saw only them until the moon went down.What wild heart-histories seemed to lie unwrittenUpon 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—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 treesDidst glide away.Only thine eyes remained.Theywould notgo—they never yet have gone.Lighting my lonely pathway home that night,Theyhave 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 savedby 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 toIn the sad, silent watches of my night;While even in the meridian glare of dayI see them still—two sweetly scintillantVenuses, unextinguished by the sun!
1846Note
It was many and many a year ago,In a kingdom by the sea,That a maiden there lived whom you may knowBy the name ofAnnabel Lee;And this maiden she lived with no other thoughtThan to love and be loved by me.Iwas a child andshewas a child,In this kingdom by the sea:But we loved with a love that was more than love—I and myAnnabel Lee;With a love that the winged seraphs of heavenCoveted her and me.And this was the reason that, long ago,In this kingdom by the sea,A wind blew out of a cloud, chillingMy beautifulAnnabel Lee;So that her highborn kinsmen cameAnd bore her away from me,To shut her up in a sepulchreIn 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 myAnnabel Lee.But our love it was stronger by far than the loveOf 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 soulOf the beautifulAnnabel Lee.For the moon never beams without bringing me dreamsOf the beautifulAnnabel Lee;And the stars never rise but I see the bright eyesOf the beautifulAnnabel Lee;And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the sideOf my darling, my darling, my life and my bride,In her sepulchre there by the sea—In her tomb by the side of the sea.
Note
For her this rhyme is penned, whose luminous eyes,Brightly expressive as the twins of Leda,Shall find her own sweet name, that, nestling liesUpon the page, enwrapped from every reader.Search narrowly the lines!—they hold a treasureDivine—a talisman—an amuletThat must be wornat heart. Search well the measure—The words—the syllables! Do not forgetThe trivialest point, or you may lose your labor!And yet there is in this no Gordian knotWhich one might not undo without a sabre,If one could merely comprehend the plot.Enwritten upon the leaf where now are peeringEyes scintillating soul, there lieperdusThree eloquent words oft uttered in the hearingOf poets by poets—as the name is a poet's, too.Its letters, although naturally lyingLike the knight Pinto—Mendez Ferdinando—Still form a synonym for Truth—Cease trying!You will not read the riddle, though you do the best youcando.
1846{To discover the names in this and the following poem, read the first letter of the first line in connection with the second letter of the second line, the third letter of the third line, the fourth, of the fourth and so on, to the end.}Note
"Seldom we find," says Solomon Don Dunce,"Half an idea in the profoundest sonnet.Through all the flimsy things we see at onceAs easily as through a Naples bonnet—Trash of all trash!—howcana lady don it?Yet heavier far than your Petrarchan stuff—Owl-downy nonsense that the faintest puffTwirls into trunk-paper the while you con it."And, veritably, Sol is right enough.The general tuckermanities are arrantBubbles—ephemeral andsotransparent—Butthis is, now—you may depend upon it—Stable, opaque, immortal—all by dintOf the dear names that lie concealed within't.
{See comment after previous poem.}Note
Because I feel that, in the Heavens above,The angels, whispering to one another,Can find, among their burning terms of love,None so devotional as that of "Mother,"Therefore by that dear name I long have called you—You who are more than mother unto me,And fill my heart of hearts, where Death installed you,In setting my Virginia's spirit free.My mother—my own mother, who died early,Was but the mother of myself; but youAre mother to the one I loved so dearly,And thus are dearer than the mother I knewBy that infinity with which my wifeWas dearer to my soul than its soul-life.
1849{The above was addressed to the poet's mother-in-law, Mrs. Clemm.—Ed.}Note
Thank Heaven! the crisis—The danger is past,And the lingering illnessIs 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 moveAs I lie at full length—But no matter!—I feelI am better at length.And I rest so composedly,Now in my bed,That any beholderMight fancy me dead—Might start at beholding meThinking me dead.The moaning and groaning,The sighing and sobbing,Are quieted now,With that horrible throbbingAt heart:—ah, that horrible,Horrible throbbing!The sickness—the nausea—The pitiless pain—Have ceased, with the feverThat maddened my brain—With the fever called "Living"That burned in my brain.And oh! of all torturesThattorture the worstHas abated—the terribleTorture of thirst,For the naphthaline riverOf Passion accurst:—I have drank of a waterThat quenches all thirst:—Of a water that flows,With a lullaby sound,From a spring but a very fewFeet under ground—From a cavern not very farDown under ground.And ah! let it neverBe foolishly saidThat my room it is gloomyAnd narrow my bed—For man never sleptIn a different bed;And, tosleep, you must slumberIn just such a bed.My tantalized spiritHere blandly reposes,Forgetting, or neverRegretting its roses—Its old agitationsOf myrtles and roses:For now, while so quietlyLying, it fanciesA holier odorAbout it, of pansies—A rosemary odor,Commingled with pansies—With rue and the beautifulPuritan pansies.And so it lies happily,Bathing in manyA dream of the truthAnd the beauty of Annie—Drowned in a bathOf the tresses of Annie.She tenderly kissed me,She fondly caressed,And then I fell gentlyTo sleep on her breast—Deeply to sleepFrom the heaven of her breast.When the light was extinguished,She covered me warm,And she prayed to the angelsTo keep me from harm—To the queen of the angelsTo 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 brighterThan all of the manyStars in the sky,For it sparkles with Annie—It glows with the lightOf the love of my Annie—With the thought of the lightOf the eyes of my Annie.
1849Note
Beloved! amid the earnest woesThat crowd around my earthly path—(Drear path, alas! where growsNot even one lonely rose)—My soul at least a solace hathIn dreams of thee, and therein knowsAn Eden of bland repose.And thus thy memory is to meLike some enchanted far-off isleIn some tumultuous sea—Some ocean throbbing far and freeWith storm—but where meanwhileSerenest skies continuallyJust o'er that one bright inland smile.
1845Note
Thou wouldst be loved?—then let thy heartFrom its present pathway part not;Being everything which now thou art,Be nothing which thou art not.So with the world thy gentle ways,Thy grace, thy more than beauty,Shall be an endless theme of praise.And love a simple duty.
1845Note
Gaily bedight,A gallant knight,In sunshine and in shadow,Had journeyed long,Singing a song,In search of Eldorado.But he grew old—This knight so bold—And o'er his heart a shadowFell as he foundNo spot of groundThat looked like Eldorado.And, as his strengthFailed him at length,He met a pilgrim shadow—"Shadow," said he,"Where can it be—This land of Eldorado?""Over the MountainsOf the Moon,Down the Valley of the Shadow,Ride, boldly ride,"The shade replied,"If you seek for Eldorado!"
1849Note
1845Note
Take this kiss upon the brow!And, in parting from you now,Thus much let me avow—You are not wrong, who deemThat my days have been a dream:Yet if hope has flown awayIn a night, or in a day,In a vision or in none,Is it therefore the lessgone?Allthat we see or seemIs but a dream within a dream.I stand amid the roarOf a surf-tormented shore,And I hold within my handGrains of the golden sand—How few! yet how they creepThrough my fingers to the deepWhile I weep—while I weep!O God! can I not graspThem with a tighter clasp?O God! can I not saveOnefrom the pitiless wave?Isallthat we see or seemBut a dream within a dream?
1849Note
Of all who hail thy presence as the morning—Of all to whom thine absence is the night—The blotting utterly from out high heavenThe sacred sun—of all who, weeping, bless theeHourly for hope—for life—ah, above all,For the resurrection of deep buried faithIn truth, in virtue, in humanity—Of all who, on despair's unhallowed bedLying down to die, have suddenly arisenAt thy soft-murmured words, "Let there be light!"At thy soft-murmured words that were fulfilledIn thy seraphic glancing of thine eyes—Of all who owe thee most, whose gratitudeNearest resembles worship,—oh, rememberThe truest, the most fervently devoted,And think that these weak lines are written by him—By him who, as he pens them, thrills to thinkHis spirit is communing with an angel's.
1847Note
Not long ago, the writer of these lines,In the mad pride of intellectuality,Maintained "the power of words"—denied that everA thought arose within the human brainBeyond the utterance of the human tongue:And now, as if in mockery of that boast,Two words—two foreign soft dissyllables—Italian tones, made only to be murmuredBy angels dreaming in the moonlit "dewThat hangs like chains of pearl on Hermon hill,"—Have stirred from out the abysses of his heart,Unthought-like thoughts that are the souls of thought,Richer, far wilder, far diviner visionsThan even the seraph harper, Israfel,(Who has "the sweetest voice of all God's creatures,")Could hope to utter. And I! my spells are broken.The pen falls powerless from my shivering hand.With thy dear name as text, though hidden by thee,I cannot write—I cannot speak or think—Alas, I cannot feel; for 'tis not feeling,This standing motionless upon the goldenThreshold of the wide-open gate of dreams,Gazing, entranced, adown the gorgeous vista,And thrilling as I see, upon the right,Upon the left, and all the way along,Amid empurpled vapors, far awayTo where the prospect terminates—thee only!
Note
Lo! Death has reared himself a throneIn a strange city lying aloneFar down within the dim West,Where the good and the bad and the worst and the bestHave gone to their eternal rest.There shrines and palaces and towers(Time-eaten towers and tremble not!)Resemble nothing that is ours.Around, by lifting winds forgot,Resignedly beneath the skyThe melancholy waters lie.No rays from the holy Heaven come downOn the long night-time of that town;But light from out the lurid seaStreams up the turrets silently—Gleams up the pinnacles far and free—Up domes—up spires—up kingly halls—Up fanes—up Babylon-like walls—Up shadowy long-forgotten bowersOf sculptured ivy and stone flowers—Up many and many a marvellous shrineWhose wreathed friezes intertwineThe viol, the violet, and the vine.Resignedly beneath the skyThe melancholy waters lie.So blend the turrets and shadows thereThat all seem pendulous in air,While from a proud tower in the townDeath looks gigantically down.There open fanes and gaping gravesYawn level with the luminous waves;But not the riches there that lieIn each idol's diamond eye—Not the gaily-jewelled deadTempt the waters from their bed;For no ripples curl, alas!Along that wilderness of glass—No swellings tell that winds may beUpon some far-off happier sea—No heavings hint that winds have beenOn seas less hideously serene.But lo, a stir is in the air!The wave—there is a movement there!As if the towers had thrust aside,In slightly sinking, the dull tide—As if their tops had feebly givenA void within the filmy Heaven.The waves have now a redder glow—The hours are breathing faint and low—And when, amid no earthly moans,Down, down that town shall settle hence,Hell, rising from a thousand thrones,Shall do it reverence.
1835?Note
At midnight, in the month of June,I stand beneath the mystic moon.An opiate vapor, dewy, dim,Exhales from out her golden rim,And, softly dripping, drop by drop,Upon the quiet mountain top,Steals drowsily and musicallyInto the universal valley.The rosemary nods upon the grave;The lily lolls upon the wave;Wrapping the fog about its breast,The ruin moulders into rest;Looking like Lethe, see! the lakeA conscious slumber seems to take,And would not, for the world, awake.All Beauty sleeps!—and lo! where lies(Her casement open to the skies)Irene, with her Destinies!Oh, lady bright! can it be right—This window open to the night!The wanton airs, from the tree-top,Laughingly through the lattice-drop—The bodiless airs, a wizard rout,Flit through thy chamber in and out,And wave the curtain canopySo fitfully—so fearfully—Above the closed and fringed lid'Neath which thy slumb'ring soul lies hid,That, o'er the floor and down the wall,Like ghosts the shadows rise and fall!Oh, lady dear, hast thou no fear?Why and what art thou dreaming here?Sure thou art come o'er far-off seas,A wonder to these garden trees!Strange is thy pallor! strange thy dress!Strange, above all, thy length of tress,And this all-solemn silentness!The lady sleeps! Oh, may her sleepWhich is enduring, so be deep!Heaven have her in its sacred keep!This chamber changed for one more holy,This bed for one more melancholy,I pray to God that she may lieFor ever with unopened eye,While the dim sheeted ghosts go by!My love, she sleeps! Oh, may her sleep,As it is lasting, so be deep;Soft may the worms about her creep!Far in the forest, dim and old,For her may some tall vault unfold—Some vault that oft hath flung its blackAnd winged panels fluttering back,Triumphant, o'er the crested palls,Of her grand family funerals—Some sepulchre, remote, alone,Against whose portal she hath thrown,In childhood many an idle stone—Some tomb from out whose sounding doorShe ne'er shall force an echo more,Thrilling to think, poor child of sin!It was the dead who groaned within.
1845Note
The ring is on my hand,And the wreath is on my brow;Satins and jewels grandAre all at my command.And I am happy now.And my lord he loves me well;But, when first he breathed his vow,I felt my bosom swell—For the words rang as a knell,And the voice seemedhiswho fellIn the battle down the dell,And who is happy now.But he spoke to reassure me,And he kissed my pallid brow,While a reverie came o'er me,And to the churchyard bore me,And I sighed to him before me,Thinking him dead D'Elormie,"Oh, I am happy now!"And thus the words were spoken,And thus the plighted vow,And, though my faith be broken,And, though my heart be broken,Behold the golden keysThatprovesme happy now!Would to God I could awakenFor I dream I know not how,And my soul is sorely shakenLest an evil step be taken,—Lest the dead who is forsakenMay not be happy now.
1845Note
"The Raven" was first published on the 29th January, 1845, in the New YorkEvening Mirror—a paper its author was then assistant editor of. It was prefaced by the following words, understood to have been written by N. P. Willis:
"We are permitted to copy (in advance of publication) from the second number of theAmerican Review, the following remarkable poem by Edgar Poe. In our opinion, it is the most effective single example of 'fugitive poetry' ever published in this country, and unsurpassed in English poetry for subtle conception, masterly ingenuity of versification, and consistent sustaining of imaginative lift and 'pokerishness.' It is one of those 'dainties bred in a book' which we feed on. It will stick to the memory of everybody who reads it."
In the February number of theAmerican Reviewthe poem was published as by "Quarles," and it was introduced by the following note, evidently suggested if not written by Poe himself.
["The following lines from a correspondent—besides the deep, quaint strain of the sentiment, and the curious introduction of some ludicrous touches amidst the serious and impressive, as was doubtless intended by the author—appears to us one of the most felicitous specimens of unique rhyming which has for some time met our eye. The resources of English rhythm for varieties of melody, measure, and sound, producing corresponding diversities of effect, have been thoroughly studied, much more perceived, by very few poets in the language. While the classic tongues, especially the Greek, possess, by power of accent, several advantages for versification over our own, chiefly through greater abundance of spondaic feet, we have other and very great advantages of sound by the modern usage of rhyme. Alliteration is nearly the only effect of that kind which the ancients had in common with us. It will be seen that much of the melody of 'The Raven' arises from alliteration and the studious use of similar sounds in unusual places. In regard to its measure, it may be noted that if all the verses were like the second, they might properly be placed merely in short lines, producing a not uncommon form: but the presence in all the others of one line—mostly the second in the verse" (stanza?)—"which flows continuously, with only an aspirate pause in the middle, like that before the short line in the Sapphio Adonic, while the fifth has at the middle pause no similarity of sound with any part beside, gives the versification an entirely different effect. We could wish the capacities of our noble language in prosody were better understood."
Ed.Am. Rev.]
The bibliographical history of "The Bells" is curious. The subject, and some lines of the original version, having been suggested by the poet's friend, Mrs. Shew, Poe, when he wrote out the first draft of the poem, headed it, "The Bells. By Mrs. M. A. Shew." This draft, now the editor's property, consists of only seventeen lines, and reads thus:
In the autumn of 1848 Poe added another line to this poem, and sent it to the editor of theUnion Magazine. It was not published. So, in the following February, the poet forwarded to the same periodical a much enlarged and altered transcript. Three months having elapsed without publication, another revision of the poem, similar to the current version, was sent, and in the following October was published in theUnion Magazine.
This poem was first published in Colton'sAmerican Reviewfor December 1847, as "To — — Ulalume: a Ballad." Being reprinted immediately in theHome Journal, it was copied into various publications with the name of the editor, N. P. Willis, appended, and was ascribed to him. When first published, it contained the following additional stanza which Poe subsequently, at the suggestion of Mrs. Whitman wisely suppressed:
"To Helen" (Mrs. S. Helen Whitman) was not published Until November 1848, although written several months earlier. It first appeared in theUnion Magazineand with the omission, contrary to the knowledge or desire of Poe, of the line, "Oh, God! oh, Heaven—how my heart beats in coupling those two words".
"Annabel Lee" was written early in 1849, and is evidently an expression of the poet's undying love for his deceased bride although at least one of his lady admirers deemed it a response to her admiration. Poe sent a copy of the ballad to theUnion Magazine, in which publication it appeared in January 1850, three months after the author's death. Whilst suffering from "hope deferred" as to its fate, Poe presented a copy of "Annabel Lee" to the editor of theSouthern Literary Messenger, who published it in the November number of his periodical, a month after Poe's death. In the meantime the poet's own copy, left among his papers, passed into the hands of the person engaged to edit his works, and he quoted the poem in an obituary of Poe in the New YorkTribune, before any one else had an opportunity of publishing it.
"A Valentine," one of three poems addressed to Mrs. Osgood, appears to have been written early in 1846.
"An Enigma," addressed to Mrs. Sarah Anna Lewig ("Stella"), was sent to that lady in a letter, in November 1847, and the following March appeared in Sartain'sUnion Magazine.
The sonnet, "To My Mother" (Maria Clemm), was sent for publication to the short-livedFlag of our Union, early in 1849, but does not appear to have been issued until after its author's death, when it appeared in theLeaflets of Memoryfor 1850.
"For Annie" was first published in theFlag of our Union, in the spring of 1849. Poe, annoyed at some misprints in this issue, shortly afterwards caused a corrected copy to be inserted in theHome Journal.
"To F——" (Frances Sargeant Osgood) appeared in theBroadway Journalfor April 1845. These lines are but slightly varied from those inscribed "To Mary," in theSouthern Literary Messengerfor July 1835, and subsequently republished, with the two stanzas transposed, inGraham's Magazinefor March 1842, as "To One Departed."
"To F—s S. O—d," a portion of the poet's triune tribute to Mrs. Osgood, was published in theBroadway Journalfor September 1845. The earliest version of these lines appeared in theSouthern Literary Messengerfor September 1835, as "Lines written in an Album," and was addressed to Eliza White, the proprietor's daughter. Slightly revised, the poem reappeared in Burton'sGentleman's Magazinefor August, 1839, as "To ——."
Although "Eldorado" was published during Poe's lifetime, in 1849, in theFlag of our Union, it does not appear to have ever received the author's finishing touches.
"Eulalie—a Song" first appears in Colton'sAmerican Reviewfor July, 1845.
"A Dream within a Dream" does not appear to have been published as a separate poem during its author's lifetime. A portion of it was contained, in 1829, in the piece beginning, "Should my early life seem," and in 1831 some few lines of it were used as a conclusion to "Tamerlane." In 1849 the poet sent a friend all but the first nine lines of the piece as a separate poem, headed "For Annie."
"To M—— L—— S——," addressed to Mrs. Marie Louise Shew, was written in February 1847, and published shortly afterwards. In the first posthumous collection of Poe's poems these lines were, for some reason, included in the "Poems written in Youth," and amongst those poems they have hitherto been included.
"To——," a second piece addressed to Mrs. Shew, and written in 1848, was also first published, but in a somewhat faulty form, in the above named posthumous collection.
Under the title of "The Doomed City" the initial version of "The City in the Sea" appeared in the 1831 volume of Poems by Poe: it reappeared as "The City of Sin," in theSouthern Literary Messengerfor August 1835, whilst the present draft of it first appeared in Colton'sAmerican Reviewfor April, 1845.
As "Irene," the earliest known version of "The Sleeper," appeared in the 1831 volume. It reappeared in theLiterary Messengerfor May 1836, and, in its present form, in theBroadway Journalfor May 1845.
"The Bridal Ballad" is first discoverable in theSouthern Literary Messengerfor January 1837, and, in its present compressed and revised form, was reprinted in theBroadway Journalfor August, 1845.
Ah, broken is the golden bowl! the spirit flown forever!Let the bell toll!—a saintly soul floats on the Stygian river.And, Guy de Vere, hastthouno tear?—weep now or never more!See! on yon drear and rigid bier low lies thy love, Lenore!Come! let the burial rite be read—the funeral song be sung!—An anthem for the queenliest dead that ever died so young—A dirge for her, the doubly dead in that she died so young."Wretches! ye loved her for her wealth and hated her for her pride,And when she fell in feeble health, ye blessed her—that she died!Howshallthe ritual, then, be read?—the requiem how be sungBy you—by yours, the evil eye,—by yours, the slanderous tongueThat did to death the innocence that died, and died so young?"Peccavimus;but rave not thus! and let a Sabbath songGo up to God so solemnly the dead may feel no wrong!The sweet Lenore hath "gone before," with Hope, that flew beside,Leaving thee wild for the dear child that should have been thy bride—For her, the fair anddébonnaire, that now so lowly lies,The life upon her yellow hair but not within her eyes—The life still there, upon her hair—the death upon her eyes."Avaunt! to-night my heart is light. No dirge will I upraise,But waft the angel on her flight with a pæan of old days!Letnobell toll!—lest her sweet soul, amid its hallowed mirth,Should catch the note, as it doth float up from the damned Earth.To friends above, from fiends below, the indignant ghost is riven—From Hell unto a high estate far up within the Heaven—From grief and groan to a golden throne beside the King of Heaven."
1833Note
Thou wast that all to me, love,For which my soul did pine—A green isle in the sea, love,A fountain and a shrine,All wreathed with fairy fruits and flowers,And all the flowers were mine.Ah, dream too bright to last!Ah, starry Hope! that didst ariseBut to be overcast!A voice from out the Future cries,"On! on!"—but o'er the Past(Dim gulf!) my spirit hovering liesMute, motionless, aghast!For, alas! alas! with meThe light of Life is o'er!"No more—no more—no more"—(Such language holds the solemn seaTo the sands upon the shore)Shall bloom the thunder-blasted tree,Or the stricken eagle soar!And all my days are trances,And all my nightly dreamsAre where thy dark eye glances,And where thy footstep gleams—In what ethereal dances,By what eternal streams!Alas! for that accursed timeThey bore thee o'er the billow,From love to titled age and crime,And an unholy pillow!From me, and from our misty clime,Where weeps the silver willow!
1835Note
Type of the antique Rome! Rich reliquaryOf lofty contemplation left to TimeBy buried centuries of pomp and power!At length—at length—after so many daysOf weary pilgrimage and burning thirst,(Thirst for the springs of lore that in thee lie,)I kneel, an altered and an humble man,Amid thy shadows, and so drink withinMy very soul thy grandeur, gloom, and glory!Vastness! and Age! and Memories of Eld!Silence! and Desolation! and dim Night!I feel ye now—I feel ye in your strength—O spells more sure than e'er Judæan kingTaught in the gardens of Gethsemane!O charms more potent than the rapt ChaldeeEver drew down from out the quiet stars!Here, where a hero fell, a column falls!Here, where the mimic eagle glared in gold,A midnight vigil holds the swarthy bat!Here, where the dames of Rome their gilded hairWaved to the wind, now wave the reed and thistle!Here, where on golden throne the monarch lolled,Glides, spectre-like, unto his marble home,Lit by the wan light of the horned moon,The swift and silent lizard of the stones!But stay! these walls—these ivy-clad arcades—These mouldering plinths—these sad and blackened shafts—These vague entablatures—this crumbling frieze—These shattered cornices—this wreck—this ruin—These stones—alas! these gray stones—are they all—All of the famed, and the colossal leftBy the corrosive Hours to Fate and me?"Not all"—the Echoes answer me—"not all!Prophetic sounds and loud, arise foreverFrom us, and from all Ruin, unto the wise,As melody from Memnon to the Sun.We rule the hearts of mightiest men—we ruleWith a despotic sway all giant minds.We are not impotent—we pallid stones.Not all our power is gone—not all our fame—Not all the magic of our high renown—Not all the wonder that encircles us—Not all the mysteries that in us lie—Not all the memories that hang uponAnd cling around about us as a garment,Clothing us in a robe of more than glory."
1838Note
In the greenest of our valleysBy 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 pinionOver fabric half so fair!Banners yellow, glorious, golden,On its roof did float and flow,(This—all this—was in the oldenTime 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, sawSpirits moving musically,To a lute's well-tunëd law,Bound about a throne where, sitting(Porphyrogene!)In state his glory well befitting,The ruler of the realm was seen.And all with pearl and ruby glowingWas the fair palace door,Through which came flowing, flowing, flowing,And sparkling evermore,A troop of Echoes, whose sweet dutyWas 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 morrowShall dawn upon him desolate !)And round about his home the gloryThat blushed and bloomed,Is but a dim-remembered storyOf the old time entombed.And travellers, now, within that valley,Through the red-litten windows seeVast forms, that move fantasticallyTo a discordant melody,While, like a ghastly rapid river,Through the pale doorA hideous throng rush out foreverAnd laugh—but smile no more.
1838Note
Lo! 'tis a gala nightWithin the lonesome latter years!An angel throng, bewinged, bedightIn veils, and drowned in tears,Sit in a theatre, to seeA play of hopes and fears,While the orchestra breathes fitfullyThe 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 goAt bidding of vast formless thingsThat shift the scenery to and fro,Flapping from out their Condor wingsInvisible Wo!That motley drama—oh, be sureIt shall not be forgot!With its Phantom chased for evermore,By a crowd that seize it not,Through a circle that ever returneth inTo the self-same spot,And much of Madness, and more of Sin,And Horror the soul of the plot.But see, amid the mimic routA crawling shape intrude!A blood-red thing that writhes from outThe scenic solitude!It writhes!—it writhes!—with mortal pangsThe mimes become its food,And the angels sob at vermin fangsIn 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,And the angels, all pallid and wan,Uprising, unveiling, affirmThat the play is the tragedy, "Man,"And its hero the Conqueror Worm.
1838Note
There are some qualities—some incorporate things,That have a double life, which thus is madeA type of that twin entity which springsFrom matter and light, evinced in solid and shade.There is a twofoldSilence—sea and shore—Body and soul. One dwells in lonely places,Newly with grass o'ergrown; some solemn graces,Some human memories and tearful lore,Render him terrorless: his name's "No More."He is the corporate Silence: dread him not!No power hath he of evil in himself;But should some urgent fate (untimely lot!)Bring thee to meet his shadow (nameless elf,That haunteth the lone regions where hath trodNo foot of man), commend thyself to God!
1840Note
By a route obscure and lonely,Haunted by ill angels only,Where an Eidolon, namedNight,On a black throne reigns upright,I have reached these lands but newlyFrom an ultimate dim Thule—From a wild weird clime that lieth, sublime,Out ofSpace—out ofTime.Bottomless vales and boundless floods,And chasms, and caves, and Titan woods,With forms that no man can discoverFor the dews that drip all over;Mountains toppling evermoreInto seas without a shore;Seas that restlessly aspire,Surging, unto skies of fire;Lakes that endlessly outspreadTheir lone waters—lone and dead,Their still waters—still and chillyWith the snows of the lolling lily.By the lakes that thus outspreadTheir lone waters, lone and dead,—Their sad waters, sad and chillyWith the snows of the lolling lily,—By the mountains—near the riverMurmuring lowly, murmuring ever,—By the gray woods,—by the swampWhere the toad and the newt encamp,—By the dismal tarns and poolsWhere dwell the Ghouls,—By each spot the most unholy—In each nook most melancholy,—There the traveller meets aghastSheeted Memories of the past—Shrouded forms that start and sighAs 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 exposedTo the weak human eye unclosed;So wills its King, who hath forbidThe uplifting of the fringed lid;And thus the sad Soul that here passesBeholds it but through darkened glasses.By a route obscure and lonely,Haunted by ill angels only.Where an Eidolon, namedNight,On a black throne reigns upright,I have wandered home but newlyFrom this ultimate dim Thule.
1844Note
Fair isle, that from the fairest of all flowers,Thy gentlest of all gentle names dost take!How many memories of what radiant hoursAt sight of thee and thine at once awake!How many scenes of what departed bliss!How many thoughts of what entombed hopes!How many visions of a maiden that isNo more—no more upon thy verdant slopes!No more!alas, that magical sad soundTransforming all! Thy charms shall pleaseno more—Thy memoryno more!Accursed groundHenceforward I hold thy flower-enamelled shore,O hyacinthine isle! O purple Zante!"Isola d'oro! Fior di Levante!"
1887Note
At morn—at noon—at twilight dim—Maria! thou hast heard my hymn!In joy and wo—in good and ill—Mother of God, be with me still!When the Hours flew brightly by,And not a cloud obscured the sky,My soul, lest it should truant be,Thy grace did guide to thine and theeNow, when storms of Fate o'ercastDarkly my Present and my Past,Let my future radiant shineWith sweet hopes of thee and thine!
1885Note