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 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!—
         That I brought a dread burden down here—
         On this night, of all nights in the year,
         Ah, what demon has 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.”

      1847. 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,
     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—
     Fell on the upturn’d faces of these roses
     That gave out, in return for the love-light,
     Their odorous souls in an ecstatic death—
     Fell on the upturn’d faces of these roses
     That smiled and died in this parterre, enchanted
     By thee, and by the poetry of thy presence. Clad all in white, upon a violet bank
     I saw thee half reclining; while the moon
     Fell 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-gate,
     To breathe the incense of those slumbering roses? No footstep stirred: the hated world all slept,
     Save only thee and me. (Oh, Heaven!—oh, God! How my heart beats in coupling those two words!) 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 woe, 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 to
     In the sad, silent watches of my night;
     While even in the meridian glare of day
     I see them still—two sweetly scintillant
     Venuses, unextinguished by the sun! ANNABEL LEE. It was many and many a year ago,
         In a kingdom by the sea,
     That a maiden 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 wingéd 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 by night
         Chilling my ANNABEL LEE;
     So that her high-born kinsmen came
         And bore her away from me,
     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, 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 see 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 her sepulchre there by the sea—
         In her tomb by the side of the sea. 1849. A VALENTINE. For her this rhyme is penned, whose luminous eyes,
         Brightly expressive as the twins of Leda,
     Shall find her own sweet name, that, nestling lies
         Upon the page, enwrapped from every reader. Search narrowly the lines!—they hold a treasure
         Divine—a talisman—an amulet
     That must be worn _at heart_. Search well the measure—
         The words—the syllables! 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 comprehend the plot.