Hear the mellow wedding-bells
                          Golden bells! What a world of happiness their harmony foretells! Through the balmy air of night
                How they ring out their delight!—
                      From the molten golden-notes,
                          And all in tune,
                      What a liquid ditty floats
           To the turtle-dove that listens, while she gloats
                          On 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 endeavor
                    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;
             Yet, 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 clamour and the clangour 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 meaning 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,
                          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. 1849. ULALUME


     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. There 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)
     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!