Gaily bedight,
    A gallant knight,
In sunshine and in shadow,
    Had journeyed long,
    Singing a song,
In search of Eldorado.

    But he grew old
    This knight so bold
And oer his heart a shadow
    Fell as he found
    No spot of ground
That looked like Eldorado.

    And, as his strength
    Failed him at length,
  He met a pilgrim shadow
    “Shadow, said he,
    “Where can it be
This land of Eldorado?

    “Over the Mountains
    Of the Moon,
Down the Valley of the Shadow,
    Ride, boldly ride,
    The shade replied,
If you seek for Eldorado!



Thank Heaven! the crisis
    The danger is past,
And the lingering illness
    Is over at last
And the fever called Living
    Is conquered at last.

Sadly, I know
    I am shorn of my strength,
And no muscle I move
    As I lie at full length
But no matter! I feel
    I am better at length.

And I rest so composedly,
    Now, in my bed,
That any beholder
    Might fancy me dead
Might start at beholding me,
    Thinking me dead.

The moaning and groaning,
    The sighing and sobbing,
Are quieted now,
    With that horrible throbbing
At heart: ah, that horrible,
    Horrible throbbing!

The sickness the nausea
    The pitiless pain
Have ceased, with the fever
    That maddened my brain
With fever called Living
    That burned in my brain.

And oh! of all tortures
    That torture the worst
Has abated the terrible
    Torture of thirst
For the naphthaline river
    Of Passion accurst:
I have drank of a water
    That quenches all thirst:

Of a water that flows,
    With a lullaby sound,
From a spring but a very few
    Feet under ground
From a cavern not very far
    Down under ground.

And ah! let it never
    Be foolishly said
That my room it is gloomy
    And narrow my bed;
For man never slept
    In a different bed
And, to sleep, you must slumber
    In just such a bed.

My tantalized spirit
    Here blandly reposes,
Forgetting, or never
    Regretting, its roses
Its old agitations
    Of myrtles and roses:

 For now, while so quietly
    Lying, it fancies
A holier odor
    About it, of pansies
A rosemary odor,
    Commingled with pansies
With rue and the beautiful
    Puritan pansies.

And so it lies happily,
    Bathing in many
A dream of the truth
    And the beauty of Annie
Drowned in a bath
    Of the tresses of Annie.

She tenderly kissed me,
    She fondly caressed,
And then I fell gently
    To sleep on her breast
Deeply to sleep
    From the heaven of her breast.

When the light was extinguished,
     She covered me warm,
And she prayed to the angels
    To keep me from harm
To the queen of the angels
    To shield me from harm.

And I lie so composedly,
    Now, in my bed
(Knowing her love),
    That you fancy me dead
And I rest so contentedly,
    Now, in my bed,
(With her love at my breast),
    That you fancy me dead
 That you shudder to look at me,
     Thinking me dead:

But my heart it is brighter
     Than all of the many
Stars in the sky,
     For it sparkles with Annie
It glows with the ligh

    Of the love of my Annie
With the thought of the light
    Of the eyes of my Annie.


Do tell | when shall we | make common | sense men | out of the |
>>owl-eyed<< | pundits

<Out> of >>The<< >>Frog-faced<< | stupid old | God-born | Pundits
who | lost in a | fog-bank |

Strut about | all along | shore there | somewhere | close by the |Down           

<Frog> >>Duck<< Pond | munching of | pea nuts and | pumpkins and |
buried in | big-wigs |

Why ask | who ever | yet saw | money made | out of a | fat old
Jew or | downright | upright | nutmegs | out of a | pine-knot |




Because I feel that, in the Heavens above,
    The angels, whispering to one another,
Can find, among their burning terms of love,
    None so devotional as that of Mother,
Therefore by that sweet name I long have called you
    You who are more than mother unto me,
And fill my heart of hearts, where Death installed you
     In setting my Virginias spirit free.
My mother my own mother, who died early,
    Was but the mother of myself; but you
Are mother to the one I loved so dearly,
    And thus are dearer than the mother I knew
By that infinity with which my wife
    Was dearer to my soul than its soul‑life.  



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.

She was a child and I 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 wingéd 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 by night
           Chilling my Annabel Lee;
So that her high-born kinsmen 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 a cloud, chilling
           And killing my Annabel Lee.  

But our love it was stronger by far than the love
            Of those who were older than we
            Of many far wiser than we
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:

For the moon never beams without bringing me dreams
             Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
And the stars never rise but I see the bright eyes
             Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
And so, all the night‑tide, I lie down by the side
Of my darling, my darling, my life and my bride,
             In her sepulchre there by the sea
             In her tomb by the sounding sea.




                   Hear the sledges with the bells
                           Silver bells!
What a world of merriment their melody foretells!
             How they tinkle, tinkle, tinkle,
                     In the icy air of night!
            While the stars that oversprinkle
            All the heavens, seem to twinkle
                     With a crystalline delight;
                 Keeping time, time, time,
                 In a sort of Runic rhyme,
To the tintinnabulation that so musically wells
        From the bells, bells, bells, bells,
                           Bells, bells, bells
    From the jingling and the tinkling of the bells.


                   Hear the mellow wedding bells
                           Golden bells!
 What a world of happiness their harmony foretells!
            Through the balmy air of night
            How they ring out their delight!
                    From the molten-golden notes,
                          And all in tune,
                   What a liquid ditty floats
           To the turtle‑dove that listens, while she gloats
                          On the moon!
                    Oh, from out the sounding cells,
 What a gush of euphony voluminously wells!
                          How it swells!
                          How it dwells
                   On the Future! how it tells
                   Of the rapture that impels
               To the swinging and the ringing
                   Of the bells, bells, bells
          Of the bells, bells, bells. bells,
                           Bells, bells, bells
To the rhyming and the chiming of the bells!


                   Hear  the loud alarum bells
                            Brazen bells!
 What a tale of terror, now, their turbulency tells!
            In the startled ear of night
           How they scream out their affright!
                 Too much horrified to speak,
                 They can only shriek, shriek,
                           Out of tune,
 In a clamorous appealing to the mercy of the fire,
In a mad expostulation with the deaf and frantic fire,
                    Leaping higher, higher, higher,
                   With a desperate desire,
               And a resolute endeavor
               Now now to sit, or never,
            By the side of the pale‑faced moon.
                  Oh, the bells, bells, bells!
                  What a tale their terror tells
                            Of Despair!
              How they clang, and clash, and roar!
              What a horror they outpour
       On the bosom of the palpitating air!
                  Yet the ear, it fully knows,
                            By the twanging
                           And the clanging,
                  How the danger ebbs and flows;
            Yet the ear distinctly tells,
                           In the jangling
                          And the wrangling,
                 How the danger sinks and swells,
By the sinking or the swelling in the anger of the bells
                          Of the bells,
            Of the bells, bells, bells, bells,
                     Bells, bells, bells
 In the clamor and the clangor of the bells!


                  Hear the tolling of the bells
                            Iron bells!
What a world of solemn thought their monody compels!
           In the silence of the night,
          How we shiver with affright
    At the melancholy menace of their tone!
                For every sound that floats
                From the rust within their throats
                           Is a groan.
                    And the people ah, the people
                    They that dwell up in the steeple,
                          All alone,
              And who tolling, tolling, tolling,
                   In that muffled monotone,
             Feel a glory in so rolling
                  On the human heart a stone
         They are neither man nor woman
         They are neither brute nor human
                         They are Ghouls:
             And their king it is who tolls:
             And he rolls, rolls, rolls,
                 A paean from the bells!
            And his merry bosom swells
                With the paean of the bells!
            And he dances, and he yells;
        Keeping time, time, time,
        In a sort of Runic rhyme,
               To the paean of the bells
                      Of the bells:
       Keeping time, time, time,
       In a sort of Runic rhyme,  
              To the throbbing of the bells
            Of the bells, bells, bells,
              To the sobbing of the bells:
         Keeping time, time, time,           
              As he knells, knells, knells,
          In a happy Runic rhyme,
                   To the rolling of the bells
              Of the bells, bells, bells:
                   To the tolling of the bells
          Of the bells, bells, bells, bells,
                      Bells, bells, bells,
To the moaning and the groaning of the bells