Edgar Allen Poe

A prominent figure in the Gothic genre, Edgar Allen Poe has captivated audiences with his dark, haunting imagination. From the macabre atmosphere of The Raven, to the bittersweet tragedy of Annabel Lee, Poe is at the forefront of horror and morbid fantasy.

 

Annabel Lee

It was many and many a year ago,

In a kingdom by the sea,

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 winged 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 highborn kinsman 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 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 sepulchre there by the sea,

In her tomb by the sounding sea.


Fairy-Land

Dim vales — and shadowy floods —

And cloudy-looking woods,

Whose forms we can’t discover

For the tears that drip all over.

Huge moons there wax and wane —

Again — again — again —

Every moment of the night

Forever changing places —

And they put out the star-light

With the breath from their pale faces. About twelve by the moon-dial,

One more filmy than the rest

(A kind which, upon trial,

They have found to be the best)

Comes down — still down — and down,

With its centre on the crown

Of a mountain’s eminence,

While its wide circumference

In easy drapery falls

 

Over hamlets, over halls,

Wherever they may be —

O’er the strange woods — o’er the sea —

Over spirits on the wing —

Over every drowsy thing —

And buries them up quite

In a labyrinth of light —

And then, how deep! — O, deep!

Is the passion of their sleep.

In the morning they arise,

And their moony covering

Is soaring in the skies,

With the tempests as they toss,

Like — almost anything —

Or a yellow Albatross.

They use that moon no more

For the same end as before —

Videlicet, a tent

Which I think extravagant:

Its atomies, however,

Into a shower dissever,

Of which those butterflies

Of Earth, who seek the skies,

And so come down again,

(Never-contented things!)

Have brought a specimen

Upon their quivering wings.

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