Life and Existence

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

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

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

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

“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.

Blessings on thee, little man, Barefoot boy, with cheek of tan!

From those great eyes The soul has fled: When faith is lost, when honor dies, The man is dead!

The Night is mother of the Day, The Winter of the Spring, And ever upon old Decay The greenest mosses cling.

So fallen! so lost! the light withdrawn Which once he wore! The glory from his gray hairs gone Forevermore!

There was a little girl Who had a little curl Right in the middle of her forehead; And when she was good She was very, very good, But when she was bad she was horrid.

The holiest of all holidays are those Kept by ourselves in silence and apart; The secret anniversaries of the heart.