Selections from Poe Part 5

But the Raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only 55 That 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 morrow _he_ will leave me, as my Hopes have flown before."

Then the bird said, "Nevermore." 60

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 Disaster Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore Till the dirges of his Hope that melancholy burden bore 65 Of 'Never--nevermore.'"

But the Raven still beguiling all my fancy into smiling, Straight I wheeled a cus.h.i.+oned seat in front of bird and bust and door; Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore, 70 What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore Meant in croaking "Nevermore."

This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom's core; This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining 75 On the cus.h.i.+on's velvet lining that the lamp-light gloated o'er, But whose velvet violet lining with the lamp-light gloating o'er _She_ shall press, ah, nevermore!

Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer Swung by seraphim whose foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor. 80 "Wretch," I cried, "thy G.o.d hath lent thee--by these angels he hath sent thee Respite--respite and nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore!

Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe, and forget this lost Lenore!"

Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."

"Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil! prophet still, if bird or devil! 85 Whether Tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ash.o.r.e, Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted-- On this home by Horror haunted--tell me truly, I implore: Is there--_is_ there balm in Gilead?--tell me--tell me, I implore!"

Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore." 90

"Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil--prophet still, if bird or devil!

By that Heaven that bends above us, by that G.o.d 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." 95 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 sh.o.r.e!

Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!

Leave my loneliness unbroken! quit the bust above my door! 100 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 sitting On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door; And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming, 105 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 floor Shall be lifted--nevermore.

EULALIE

I dwelt alone In a world of moan, And my soul was a stagnant tide, Till the fair and gentle Eulalie became my blus.h.i.+ng bride, Till the yellow-haired young Eulalie became my smiling bride. 5

Ah, less--less bright The stars of the night Than the eyes of the radiant girl!

And never a flake That the vapor can make 10 With the moon-tints of purple and pearl Can vie with the modest Eulalie's most unregarded curl, Can compare with the bright-eyed Eulalie's most humble and careless curl.

Now doubt--now pain Come never again, 15 For her soul gives me sigh for sigh; And all day long s.h.i.+nes, bright and strong, Astarte within the sky, While ever to her dear Eulalie upturns her matron eye, 20 While ever to her young Eulalie upturns her violet eye.

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 heaven The sacred sun; of all who, weeping, bless thee Hourly for hope, for life, ah! above all, 5 For the resurrection of deep-buried faith In truth, in virtue, in humanity; Of all who, on despair's unhallowed bed Lying down to die, have suddenly arisen At thy soft-murmured words, "Let there be light!" 10 At the soft-murmured words that were fulfilled In the seraphic glancing of thine eyes; Of all who owe thee most, whose grat.i.tude Nearest resembles wors.h.i.+p, oh, remember The truest, the most fervently devoted, 15 And think that these weak lines are written by him: By him, who, as he pens them, thrills to think His spirit is communing with an angel's.

ULALUME

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 October Of my most immemorial year; 5 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 t.i.tanic 10 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 15 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, 20 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!) 25 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 30 And star-dials pointed to morn, As the star-dials hinted of morn, At the end of our path a liquescent And nebulous l.u.s.tre was born, Out of which a miraculous crescent 35 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, 40 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, 45 To the Lethean peace of the skies: Come up, in despite of the Lion, To s.h.i.+ne on us with her bright eyes: Come up through the lair of the Lion, With love in her luminous eyes." 50

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." 55 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. 60

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 beaming With hope and in beauty to-night: 65 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, 70 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 pa.s.sed to the end of the vista, 75 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-- 80 'T is the vault of thy lost Ulalume!"

Then my heart it grew ashen and sober As the leaves that were crisped and sere, As the leaves that were withering and sere, And I cried--"It was surely October 85 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 has tempted me here? 90 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."

TO ----

Not long ago the writer of these lines, In the mad pride of intellectuality, Maintained "the power of words"--denied that ever A thought arose within the human brain Beyond the utterance of the human tongue: 5 And now, as if in mockery of that boast, Two words, two foreign soft dissyllables, Italian tones, made only to be murmured By angels dreaming in the moonlit "dew That hangs like chains of pearl on Hermon hill," 10 Have stirred from out the abysses of his heart Unthought-like thoughts, that are the souls of thought,-- Richer, far wilder, far diviner visions Than even the seraph harper, Israfel (Who has "the sweetest voice of all G.o.d's creatures"), 15 Could hope to utter. And I--my spells are broken; The pen falls powerless from my s.h.i.+vering hand; With thy dear name as text, though hidden by thee, I cannot write--I cannot speak or think-- Alas, I cannot feel; for't is not feeling,-- 20 This standing motionless upon the golden Threshold 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, 25 Amid empurpled vapors, far away To where the prospect terminates--thee only.

AN ENIGMA

"Seldom we find," says Solomon Don Dunce, "Half an idea in the profoundest sonnet.

Through all the flimsy things we see at once As easily as through a Naples bonnet-- Trash of all tras.h.!.+ how can a lady don it? 5 Yet heavier far than your Petrarchan stuff, Owl-downy nonsense that the faintest puff Twirls into trunk-paper the while you con it."

And, veritably, Sol is right enough.

The general tuckermanities are arrant 10 Bubbles, ephemeral and _so_ transparent; But _this_ is, now, you may depend upon it, Stable, opaque, immortal--all by dint Of the dear names that lie concealed within 't.

TO HELEN.

I saw thee once--once only--years ago: I must not say how many--but not many.

It was a July midnight; and from out A full-orbed moon, that, like thine own soul, soaring Sought a precipitate pathway up through heaven, 5 There fell a silvery-silken veil of light, With quietude and sultriness and slumber, Upon the upturned faces of a thousand Roses that grew in an enchanted garden, Where no wind dared to stir, unless on tiptoe: 10 Fell on the upturned faces of these roses That gave out, in return for the love-light, Their odorous souls in an ecstatic death: Fell on the upturned faces of these roses That smiled and died in this parterre, enchanted 15 By thee, and by the poetry of thy presence.