Life and Existence

It’s a long lane that knows no turnings.

“You’re wounded!” “Nay,” the soldier’s pride Touched to the quick, he said: “I’m killed, Sire!” And his chief beside, Smiling the boy fell dead.

The year’s at the spring And day’s at the morn; Morning’s at seven; The hillside’s dew-pearled; The lark’s on the wing; The snail’s on the thorn: God’s in his heaven— All’s right with the world.

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.

In her sepulcher there by the sea— In her tomb by the sounding sea.

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 wingèd seraphs of Heaven Coveted her and me.

And the fever called “Living” Is conquered at last.

Thus I pacified Psyche and kissed her, And tempted her out of her gloom.

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.

And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door.

And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor Shall be lifted—nevermore!

“Prophet!” said I, “thing of evil!—prophet still, if bird or devil!”

“Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!” Quoth the Raven, “Nevermore.”

“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.”

For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore— Nameless here for evermore.

Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December; And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.

While the angels, all pallid and wan, Uprising, unveiling, affirm That the play is the tragedy, “Man,” And its hero the Conqueror Worm.

While from a proud tower in the town Death looks gigantically down.

And when, amid no earthly moans, Down, down that town shall settle hence, Hell, rising from a thousand thrones, Shall do it reverence.

Lo! Death has reared himself a throne In a strange city, lying alone Far down within the dim West, Where the good and the bad and the worst and the best Have gone to their eternal rest.

From childhood’s hour I have not been As others were—I have not seen As others saw.

From childhood’s hour I have not been As others were—I have not seen As others saw.

Dear Lord and Father of mankind, Forgive our foolish ways! Reclothe us in our rightful mind, In purer lives Thy service find, In deeper reverence, praise.

I am the somber one, the unconsoled widower, The Prince of Aquitaine whose tower was destroyed. 2 My only star is dead, and my star-studded lute Wears the black sun of Melancholy.