-.'.-Edgar Poe-.'.-

[Annabel Lee]
[Lines on Ale]
[The Happiest Day]
[Sleeper ("To Helen" version)]

Edgar Allan Poe (1809-1849) lived a sad life, being orphaned with the death of his parents before he was 3, being rejected by his "adoptive" father, losing his young wife to illness after watching her suffer,and finally ending up nearly dead in a gutter from which he was dragged to only die alone in a hospital a short time after. His in-born brilliance, his madness, and his love for the bottle led him to create one masterpiece after the other, excelling as a short-story writer, pretty much invent the detective story, and giving us some of the most wonderful verse ever written.

:::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.
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:::[Lines on Ale]:::
Fill with mingled cream and amber,
    I will drain that glass again.
Such hilarious visions clamber
    Through the chamber of my brain —
Quaintest thoughts — queerest fancies
    Come to life and fade away;
What care I how time advances?
    I am drinking ale today.
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:::The Happiest Day:::
The happiest day–the happiest hour
My sear'd and blighted heart hath known,
The highest hope of pride and power,
I feel hath flown.

Of power! said I? yes! such I ween;
But they have vanish'd long, alas!
The visions of my youth have been-
But let them pass.

And, pride, what have I now with thee?
Another brow may even inherit
The venom thou hast pour'd on me
Be still, my spirit!

The happiest day–the happiest hour
Mine eyes shall see–have ever seen,
The brightest glance of pride and power,
I feel–have been:

But were that hope of pride and power
Now offer'd with the pain
Even then I felt–that brightest hour
I would not live again:

For on its wing was dark alloy,
And, as it flutter'd–fell
An essence–powerful to destroy
A soul that knew it well.
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:::Sleeper ("To Helen" version):::
Helen, thy beauty is to me
   Like those Nicean barks of yore,
That gently, o'er a perfum'd sea,
   The weary way-worn wanderer bore
   To his own native shore.
On desperate seas long wont to roam,
   Thy hyacinth hair, thy classic face,
Thy Naiad airs have brought me home
   To the beauty of fair Greece,
And the grandeur of old Rome.
Lo! in that little window-niche
   How statue-like I see thee stand!
   The folded scroll within thy hand —
A Psyche from the regions which
   Are Holy land!
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