onetwothreewhatever 


  E D G A R  A L L A N 
  P O E

The Haunted Palace 
I

	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.


II

	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 odour went away.


III

	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.


IV

	And all with pearl and ruby glowing
	   Was the fair palace door,
	Through which came flowing, flowing, flowing
	   And sparkling everymore,
	A troop of echoes whose sweet duty
	   Was but to sing,
	In voices of surpassing beauty,
	   The wit and wisdom of their king.


V

	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 time entombed.


VI

	And travellers now within that valley,
	   Through the red-litten windows, see
	Vast forms that move fantastically
	   To a discordant melody;
	While, like a rapid ghastly river,
	   Through the pale door,
	A hideous throng rush out forever,
	   And laugh - but smile no more.

extract from 'The Fall of the House of Usher'






Ligeia's Verse


	Lo! 'tis a gala night
	   Within the lonesome latter years!
	An angel throng, bewinged, bedight
	   In veils, and drowned in tears,
	Sit in a theatre, to see
	   A play of hopes and fears,
	While the orchestra breathes fitfully
	   The music of the spheres.

	Mimes, in the form of God on high,
	   Mutter and mumble low,
	And hither and thither fly - 
	   Mere puppets they, who come and go
	At bidding of vast formless things
	   That shift the scenery to and fro,
	Flapping from out their Condor wings
	   Invisible Woe!

	That motley drama! - oh, be sure
	   It shall not be forgot!
	With its Phantom chased forever more,
	   By a crowd that seize it not,
	Through a circle that ever returneth in
	   To the self-same spot,
	And much of Madness and more of Sin
	   And Horror the soul of the plot

	But see, amid the mimic rout,
	   A crawling shape interlude!
	A blood-red thing that writhes from out	
	   The scenic solitude!
	It writhes! - it writhes! - with mortal pangs
	   The mimes become its food,
	And the seraphs sob at vermin fangs
	   In human gore imbued.

	Out - out are the lights - out all!
	   And over each quivering form,
	The curtain, a funeral pall,
	   Comes down with the rush of a storm,
	And the angels, all pallid and wan,
	   Uprising, unveiling, affirm
	That the play is the tragedy, "Man,"
	   And its hero the Conqueror Worm.

extract from 'Ligeia'
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