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The Haunted Palace
In the greenest of our valleys
By
good angels tenanted,
Once a fair and stately palace-
Radiant palace- reared its head.
In the monarch Thought's dominion-
It stood there!
Never seraph spread a pinion
Over fabric half so fair!
Banners yellow, glorious, golden,
On
its roof did float and flow,
(This- all this- was in the olden Time long ago,)
And every gentle air that dallied,
In that sweet day,
Along the ramparts plumed
and pallid,
A winged odor went away.
Wanderers in that happy valley,
Through two luminous windows, saw
Spirits
moving musically,
To a lute's well-tuned law,
Round about a throne where, sitting (Porphyrogene!)
In state his glory
well-befitting,
The ruler of the realm was seen.
And all with pearl and ruby glowing
Was the fair palace door,
Through
which came flowing, flowing, flowing,
And sparkling evermore,
A troop of
Echoes, whose sweet duty was but to sing,
In voices of surpassing beauty,
The wit and wisdom of their king.
But
evil things, in robes of sorrow,
Assailed the monarch's high estate.
(Ah, let us mourn!- for never morrow
Shall dawn
upon him desolate!)
And round about his home the glory
That blushed and bloomed,
Is but a dim-remembered story
Of
the old time entombed.
And travellers, now, within that valley,
Through the red-litten windows see
Vast forms,
that move fantastically
To a discordant melody,
While, like a ghastly rapid river,
Through the pale door
A hideous
throng rush out forever
And laugh- but smile no more.
By Edgar Allan Poe
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 for evermore.
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,
"'Tis 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, and an echo murmured back the word, "Lenore!"- Merely this, and nothing more.
Back into the chamber turning,
all my soul within me burning,
Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before.
"Surely," said I, "surely that
is something at my window lattice:
Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore-
Let my heart be still
a moment and this mystery explore;-
'Tis the wind and nothing more."
Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many
a flirt and flutter,
In there stepped a stately raven of the saintly days of yore;
Not the least obeisance made he;
not a minute stopped or stayed he;
But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door-
Perched upon a bust
of Pallas just above my chamber door-
Perched, and sat, and nothing more.
Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad
fancy into smiling,
By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore.
"Though thy crest be shorn and shaven,
thou," I said, "art sure no craven, Ghastly grim and ancient raven wandering from the Nightly shore- Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night's Plutonian shore!"
Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."
Much
I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,
Though its answer little meaning- little relevancy bore;
For
we cannot help agreeing that no living human being
Ever yet was blest with seeing bird above his chamber door-
Bird
or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door,
With such name as "Nevermore."
But the raven, sitting
lonely on the placid bust, spoke only
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."
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
Of 'Never- nevermore'."
But the Raven still beguiling all my fancy into
smiling,
Straight I wheeled a cushioned 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-
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
On
the cushion's velvet lining that the lamplight gloated o'er,
But whose velvet violet lining with the lamplight gloating
o'er,
She shall press, ah, nevermore!
Then methought the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer
Swung
by Seraphim whose footfalls tinkled on the tufted floor.
"Wretch," I cried, "thy God 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!- Whether
Tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore, 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."
"Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil- prophet still, if bird or
devil! Whether Tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore, 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."
Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."
"Be that word our sign in
parting, bird or fiend," I shrieked,
upstarting- "Get thee back into the tempest and the Night's Plutonian shore! Leave
no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken! Leave my loneliness unbroken!- quit the bust above my door!
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,
And
the lamplight 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!
By Edgar Allan Poe
Spirits of the Dead
Thy soul shall find itself
alone
'Mid dark thoughts of the grey tomb-stone;
Not one, of all the crowd, to pry
Into thine hour of secrecy.
Be
silent in that solitude,
Which is not loneliness- for then
The spirits of the dead, who stood
In life before thee,
are again
In death around thee, and their will
Shall overshadow thee; be still.
The night, though clear, shall
frown,
And the stars shall not look down
From their high thrones in the Heaven
With light like hope to mortals given,
But
their red orbs, without beam,
To thy weariness shall seem
As a burning and a fever
Which would cling to thee for
ever.
Now are thoughts thou shalt not banish,
Now are visions ne'er to vanish;
From thy spirit shall they pass
No
more, like dew-drop from the grass.
The breeze, the breath of God, is still,
And the mist upon the hill
Shadowy,
shadowy, yet unbroken,
Is a symbol and a token.
How it hangs upon the trees,
A mystery of mysteries!
By
Edgar Allan Poe
The Cats
Babels of blocks to the high heavens
towering
Flames of futility swirling below;
Poisonous fungi in brick and stone flowering,
Lanterns that shudder and
death-lights that glow.
Black monstrous bridges across oily rivers,
Cobwebs
of cable to nameless things spun;
Catacomb deeps whose dank chaos delivers
Streams of live foetor that rots in the sun.
Colour and splendour, disease and decaying,
Shrieking
and ringing and crawling insane,
Rabbles exotic to stranger-gods praying,
Jumbles of odour that stifle the brain.
Legions of cats from the alleys nocturnal.
Howling
and lean in the glare of the moon,
Screaming the future with mouthings infernal,
Yelling the Garden of Pluto's red rune.
Tall towers and pyramids ivy'd and crumbling,
Bats
that swoop low in the weed-cumber'd streets;
Bleak Arkham bridges o'er rivers whose rumbling
Joins with no voice as
the thick horde retreats.
Belfries that
buckle against the moon totter,
Caverns whose mouths are by mosses effac'd,
And living to answer the wind and the water,
Only
the lean cats that howl in the wastes.
By H.P Lovecraft
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