Death and Mourning

But me they’ll lash in hammock, drop me deep. Fathoms down, fathoms down, how I’ll dream fast asleep. I feel it stealing now. Sentry, are you there? Just ease these darbies [manacles] at the wrist, And roll me over fair! I am sleepy, and the oozy weeds about me twist.

What troops Of generous boys in happiness thus bred— Saturnians through life’s Tempe led, Went from the North and came from the South, With golden mottoes in the mouth, To lie down midway on a bloody bed.

You never know what life means till you die: Even throughout life, ’tis death that makes life live, Gives it whatever the significance.

Fear death?—to feel the fog in my throat, The mist in my face.

Just when we are safest, there’s a sunset touch, A fancy from a flower bell, someone’s death, A chorus ending from Euripides.

Who knows but the world may end tonight?

“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.

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.

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

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.

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.

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

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 the light withdrawn Which once he wore!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