We bow as in the dust, with all our pride EDGAR ALLAN POE. ANNABEL LEE. It was many and many a year ago, That a maiden there lived whom you may know 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 And this was the reason that long ago, A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling So that her high-born kinsmen came 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, But our love it was stronger by far than the love Of many far wiser than we And neither the angels in heaven above, For the moon never beams without bringing me dreams And the stars never rise but I feel the bright eyes And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side my darling my life and my bride, In her sepulchre there by the sea In her tomb by the sounding sea. What a world of merriment their melody foretells! In the icy air of night! 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 What a world of happiness their harmony foretells! What a liquid ditty floats To the turtle-dove that listens, while she gloats Oh, from out the sounding cells, To the rhyming and the chiming of the bells! What a tale of terror, now, their turbulency tells! 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; By the side of the pale-faced moon. Oh, the bells, bells, bells! What a tale their terror tells How they clang, and clash, and roar! On the bosom of the palpitating air! 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 clamour and the clangour of the bells! What a world of solemn thought their monody compels! At the melancholy menace of their tone! For every sound that floats From the rust within their throats They are neither man nor woman And their king it is who tolls; A pæan from the bells! Keeping time, time, time, To the sobbing of the bells; To the tolling of the bells, To the moaning and the groaning of the bells. |