Selections from Poe. Edgar Allan Poe

and mumble low,

      And hither and thither fly;

        Mere puppets they, who come and go

      At bidding of vast formless things

        That shift the scenery to and fro,

      Flapping from out their condor wings

        Invisible Woe.

      That motley drama – oh, be sure

        It shall not be forgot!

      With its Phantom chased for evermore

        By a crowd that seize it not,

      Through a circle that ever returneth in

        To the self-same spot;

      And much of Madness, and more of Sin,

        And Horror the soul of the plot.

      But see amid the mimic rout

        A crawling shape, intrude:

      A blood-red thing that writhes from out

        The scenic solitude!

      It writhes – it writhes! – with mortal pangs

        The mimes become its food,

      And 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,

      While the angels, all pallid and wan,

        Uprising, unveiling, affirm

      That the play is the tragedy, "Man,"

        And its hero, the Conqueror Worm.

      DREAM-LAND

      By a route obscure and lonely,

      Haunted by ill angels only,

      Where an Eidolon, named Night,

      On a black throne reigns upright,

      I have reached these lands but newly

      From an ultimate dim Thule:

      From a wild weird clime that lieth, sublime,

        Out of Space – out of Time.

      Bottomless vales and boundless floods,

      And chasms and caves and Titan woods,

      With forms that no man can discover

      For the tears that drip all over;

      Mountains toppling evermore

      Into seas without a shore;

      Seas that restlessly aspire,

      Surging, unto skies of fire;

      Lakes that endlessly outspread

      Their lone waters, lone and dead, —

      Their still waters, still and chilly

      With the snows of the lolling lily.

      By the lakes that thus outspread

      Their lone waters, lone and dead, —

      Their sad waters, sad and chilly

      With the snows of the lolling lily;

      By the mountains – near the river

      Murmuring lowly, murmuring ever;

      By the gray woods, by the swamp

      Where the toad and the newt encamp;

      By the dismal tarns and pools

          Where dwell the Ghouls;

      By each spot the most unholy,

      In each nook most melancholy, —

      There the traveller meets aghast

      Sheeted Memories of the Past:

      Shrouded forms that start and sigh

      As they pass the wanderer by,

      White-robed forms of friends long given,

      In agony, to the Earth – and Heaven.

      For the heart whose woes are legion

      'T is a peaceful, soothing region;

      For the spirit that walks in shadow

      'T is – oh, 't is an Eldorado!

      But the traveller, travelling through it,

      May not – dare not openly view it;

      Never its mysteries are exposed

      To the weak human eye unclosed;

      So wills its King, who hath forbid

      The uplifting of the fringéd lid;

      And thus the sad Soul that here passes

      Beholds it but through darkened glasses.

      By a route obscure and lonely,

      Haunted by ill angels only,

      Where an Eidolon, named Night,

      On a black throne reigns upright,

      I have wandered home but newly

      From this ultimate dim Thule.

      THE RAVEN

      Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,

      Over many a quaint and curious volume of, forgotten lore, —

      While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,

      As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.

      "'Tis some visitor," I muttered, "tapping at my chamber door:

                Only this and nothing more."

      Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December,

      And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.

      Eagerly I wished the morrow; – vainly I had sought to borrow

      From my books surcease of sorrow – sorrow for the lost Lenore,

      For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore:

                Nameless here forevermore.

      And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtain

      Thrilled me – filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;

      So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating

      "'T is some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door,

      Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door:

                This it is and nothing more."

      Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,

      "Sir," said I, "or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;

      But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,

      And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door,

      That I scarce was sure I heard you" – here I opened wide the door: —

                Darkness there and nothing more.

      Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,

      Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortals ever dared to dream before;

      But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token,

      And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, "Lenore?"

      This I whispered,