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 pean of the bells,
And he dances, and he yells;
Keeping time, time, time,
In a sort of Runic rhyme,
To the throbbing 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.
It was many and many sex,
T was many and many a year ago,
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 wingèd 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 high-born kinsman came
And bore her away from me,
To shut her up in a sepulcher
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 sepulcher there by the sea,
In her tomb by the sounding sea.
HE 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 Titantic
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), 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 luster 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 until 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 Sibylic 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,—
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