Bubbles-ephemeral and so transparent But this is, now-you may depend upon itStable, opaque, immortal-all by dint Of the dear names that lie concealed within't. [The name Sarah Anna Lewis will be found in the above sonnet by reading consecutively the first letter of the first line, second letter of second line, and so to the end.] 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- With a love that the winged seraphs of heaven And this was the reason that, long ago, So that her highborn kinsman came In this kingdom by the sea. The angels, not half so happy in heaven, Yes! that was the reason (as all men know, That the wind came out of the cloud by night, 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, For the moon never beams without bringing me dreams Of the beautiful ANNABEL LEE ; And the stars never rise but I see the bright eyes And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side To my Mother. BECAUSE I feel that, in the Heavens above, 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, By that infinity with which my wife The Haunted Palace. In the greenest of our valleys In the monarch Thought's dominion— Never seraph spread a pinion Banners yellow, glorious, golden, And every gentle air that dallied, Along the ramparts plumed and pallid, Wanderers in that happy valley, Through two luminous window, saw Spirits moving musically, To a lute's well-tuned law, Round 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 glowing Through which came flowing, flowing, flowing, A troop of Echoes, whose sweet duty In voices of surpassing beauty. The wit and wisdom of their king. But evil things, in robes of sorrow, And travellers, now, within that valley, A hideous throng rush out for ever, The Conqueror Worm. Lo! 'tis a gala night Within the lonesome latter years! A play of hopes and fears, Mimes, in the form of God on high, Mere puppets they, who come and go That motley drama-oh, be sure With its Phantom chased for evermore Through a circle that ever returneth in And much of Madness, and more of Sin, But see, amid the mimic rout A crawling shape intrude! A blood-red thing that writhes from out It writhes!—it writhes !—with mortal pangs And the 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, And the angels, all pallid and wan, Uprising, unveiling, affirm That the play is the tragedy 'Man,' And its hero the Conqueror Worm. |