Complete poems of Edgar Allan Poe / [by Edgar Allan Poe] ; collected, edited, and arranged with memoir, textual notes and bibliography by J.H. Whitty [electronic text]

LATER POEMS

LATER POEMS

THE BELLS

I

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 oversprinkleAll the Heavens, seem to twinkleWith a crystalline delight;Keeping time, time, time,In a sort of Runic rhyme, To the tintinnabulation that so musically wellsFrom the bells, bells, bells, bells,Bells, bells, bells —From the jingling and the tinkling of the bells.

II

Hear the mellow wedding bells —Golden bells!What a world of happiness their harmony foretells!Through the balmy air of nightHow they ring out their delight! —From the molten-golden notes,And all in time,What a liquid ditty floatsTo the turtle-dove that listens, while she gloatsOn 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!

III

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 endeavour 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; Yes, 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!

IV

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, Rolls A Pæan from the bells! And his merry bosom swells With the Pæan of the bells! And he dances and he yells; Keeping time, time, time, In a sort of Runic rhyme, To the Pæan 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.

TO M. L. S—

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 the soft-murmured words that were fulfilledIn the 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.

TO — — —

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 bidden by thee,I cannot write — I cannot speak or think,Alas, I cannot feel; for 't is 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 alongAmid empurpled vapors, far awayTo where the prospect terminates — thee only.

SONNET

1 1.1"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! — how can a 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 Petrarchanities are arrantBubbles — ephemeral and so transparent —But this is, now, — you may depend upon it —Stable, opaque, immortal — all by dintOf the dear names that lie concealed within 't.

TO — — —

1 1.2

I SAW thee once — once only — years ago:I must not say how many — but not many.It was a July midnight; and from outA full-orbed moon, that, like thine own soul, soaring,Sought a precipitant 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 tip-toe —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-gateTo breathe the incense of those slumbering roses?No footstep stirred: the hated world all slept,

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' odors Died 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 enwritten Upon those crystalline, celestial spheres! How dark a wo! 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 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 — 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 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, 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!

A VALENTINE

To — — —

FOR her these lines are penned, whose luminous eyes, Brightly expressive as the twins of Lœda, Shall find her own sweet name that, nestling, lies Upon this page, enwrapped from every reader. Search narrowly this rhyme, which holds a treasure Divine — a talisman — an amulet That must be worn at heart. Search well the measure; The words — the letters themselves. Do not forget The trivialest point, or you may lose your labor. And yet there is in this no Gordian knot Which one might not undo without a sabre, If one could merely understand the plot. Enwritten upon this page whereon are peering Such eager eyes, there lies, I say, perdu, A well-known name, oft uttered in the hearing Of poets, by poets; as the name is a poet's, too. Its letters, although naturally lying — Like the knight Pinto (Mendez Ferdinando) — Still form a synonym for truth. Cease trying! You will not read the riddle though you do the best you can do.

FOR ANNIE

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 knowI 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 composedlyNow, in my bed,That any beholderMight 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 throbbingAt 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 napthaline 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.

But 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.

SONNET — TO MY MOTHER

BECAUSE the angels in the Heavens above,Devoutly singing unto one another,Can find amid their burning terms of love,None so devotional as that of "Mother,"Therefore by that sweet name I long have called you;You who are more than mother unto me,Filling my heart of hearts, where God 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 dead I loved so dearly,Are thus more precious than the one I knew,By that infinity with which my wifeWas dearer to my soul than its soul life.

ELDORADO

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 shadow Fell, as he found No spot of ground That looked like Eldorado.

And, as his strength Failed him at length, He met a pilgrim shadow — "Shadow," said he, "Where can it be — This land of Eldorado?"

"Over the Mountains Of the Moon, Down the Valley of the Shadow, Ride, boldly ride," The shade replied, — "If you seek for Eldorado!"

ANNABEL LEE

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 of Annabel Lee; —And this maiden she lived with no other thoughtThan to love and be loved by me.

She was a child and I 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 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, by nightChilling my Annabel Lee;So that her high-born 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, chillingAnd killing my Annabel Lee.

POE'S DESK
Used by him at office of the Southern Literary Messenger

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 beautiful Annabel Lee: —

For the moon never beams without bringing me dreamsOf the beautiful Annabel Lee;And the stars never rise but I see the bright eyesOf the beautiful Annabel Lee;And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the sideOf my darling, my darling, my life and my brideIn her sepulchre there by the sea —In her tomb by the sounding sea.

ULALUME — A BALLAD

THE skies they were ashen and sober; The leaves they were crispèd 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 Yaanck 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 — Ah, hasten! — Ah, let us not linger! Ah, 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 Sybillic 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 surely 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 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! — 'T is 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, Ah! what demon hath 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."

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 ties in these wolds — From the thing that lies hidden in these wolds — Have drawn up the spectre of a planet From the limbo of lunary souls, This sinfully scintillant planet From the Hell of the planetary souls?"

Notes

• 1 1.1

  The title in all other editions of Poe's poems is, "An Enigma."
• 1 1.2

  The title in all other editions of Poe's poems is, "To Helen"