* * * * * 
    The Raven
    

  
Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore,
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.
"'Tis some visitor," I muttered, "tapping at my chamber door-
Only this, and nothing more."

Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December,
And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.
Eagerly I wished the morrow;- vainly I had sought to borrow
From my books surcease of sorrow- sorrow for the lost Lenore-
For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore-
Nameless here for evermore.

And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtain
Thrilled me- filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;
So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating,
"'Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door-
Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door;-
This it is, and nothing more."

Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,
"Sir," said I, "or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;
But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,
And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door,
That I scarce was sure I heard you"- here I opened wide the door;-
Darkness there, and nothing more.

Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,
Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortals ever dared to dream before;
But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token,
And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, "Lenore!"
This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, "Lenore!"-
Merely this, and nothing more.

Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,
Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before.
"Surely," said I, "surely that is something at my window lattice:
Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore-
Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore;-
'Tis the wind and nothing more."

Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,
In there stepped a stately raven of the saintly days of yore;
Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he;
But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door-
Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door-
Perched, and sat, and nothing more.

Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,
By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore.
"Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou," I said, "art sure no craven,
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."

Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,
Though its answer little meaning- little relevancy bore;
For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being
Ever yet was blest with seeing bird above his chamber door-
Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door,
With such name as "Nevermore."

But the raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only
That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.
Nothing further then he uttered- not a feather then he fluttered-
Till I scarcely more than muttered, "other friends have flown before-
On the morrow he will leave me, as my hopes have flown before."
Then the bird said, "Nevermore."

Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,
"Doubtless," said I, "what it utters is its only stock and store,
Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful Disaster
Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore-
Till the dirges of his Hope that melancholy burden bore
Of 'Never- nevermore'."

But the Raven still beguiling all my fancy into smiling,
Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird, and bust and door;
Then upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking
Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore-
What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt and ominous bird of yore
Meant in croaking "Nevermore."

This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing
To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom's core;
This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining
On the cushion's velvet lining that the lamplight gloated o'er,
But whose velvet violet lining with the lamplight gloating o'er,
She shall press, ah, nevermore!

Then methought the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer
Swung by Seraphim whose footfalls tinkled on the tufted floor.
"Wretch," I cried, "thy God hath lent thee- by these angels he hath sent thee
Respite- respite and nepenthe, from thy memories of Lenore!
Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe and forget this lost Lenore!"
Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."

"Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil!- prophet still, if bird or devil!-
Whether Tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,
Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted-
On this home by horror haunted- tell me truly, I implore-
Is there- is there balm in Gilead?- tell me- tell me, I implore!"
Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."

"Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil- prophet still, if bird or devil!
By that Heaven that bends above us- by that God we both adore-
Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn,
It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore-
Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore."
Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."

"Be that word our sign in parting, bird or fiend," I shrieked, upstarting-
"Get thee back into the tempest and the Night's Plutonian shore!
Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!
Leave my loneliness unbroken!- quit the bust above my door!
Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!"
Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."

And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;
And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming,
And the lamplight o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;
And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor
Shall be lifted- nevermore!
 
   * * * * * 
    A Dream 
      In visions of the dark night
        I have dreamed of joy departed-
      But a waking dream of life and light
        Hath left me broken-hearted.

      Ah! what is not a dream by day
        To him whose eyes are cast
      On things around him with a ray
        Turned back upon the past?

      That holy dream- that holy dream,
        While all the world were chiding,
      Hath cheered me as a lovely beam
        A lonely spirit guiding.

      What though that light, thro' storm and night,
        So trembled from afar-
      What could there be more purely bright
        In Truth's day-star?
 
    * * * * * 
      Annabell 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 kinsmen came
     And bore her away from me,
To shut her up in a sepulche
     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.
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 feel 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.
 
 
Edgar Allan Poe

(1809 - 1849)

 
 
Wonderous moment
 
The wondrous moment of our meeting . . .
I well remember you appear 
Before me like a vision fleeting, 
A beauty's angel pure and clear. 
  
In hopeless ennui surrounding 
The worldly bustle, to my ear 
For long your tender voice kept sounding, 
For long in dreams came features dear. 
  
Time passed. Unruly storms confounded 
Old dreams, and I from year to year 
Forgot how tender you had sounded, 
Your heavenly features once so dear. 
  
My backwoods days dragged slow and quiet
Dull fence around, dark vault above
Devoid of God and uninspired, 
Devoid of tears, of fire, of love. 
  
Sleep from my soul began retreating, 
And here you once again appear 
Before me like a vision fleeting, 
A beauty's angel pure and clear. 
  
In ecstasy the heart is beating, 
Old joys for it anew revive; 
Inspired and God-filled, it is greeting 
The fire, and tears, and love alive.



Love letter

I just recall this wondrous instant:
You have arrived before my face --
A vision, fleeting in a distance,
A spirit of the pure grace.
In pine of sorrow unfair,
In worldly harassment and noise
I dreamed of your beloved air
And heard your quiet, gentle voice.
Years passed. The tempests' rebel senders
Have scattered this delightful dream,
And I forgot this sound tender
And how heavenly you seemed.
In gloomy dark of isolation,
My days were gradually moved,
Without faith and inspiration,
Without tears, life, and love.
My soul awoke with decision:
And you again came as a blest,
Like an enchanting fleeting vision,
A spirit of the pure grace.
My heart beats on in resurrection --
It has again for what to strive:
Divinity and inspiration,
Life, tears, and eternal love.

The Night

My voice that is for you the languid one, and gentle,
Disturbs the velvet of the dark night's mantle,
By my bedside, a candle, my sad guard,
Burns, and my poems ripple and merge in flood --
And run the streams of love, run, full of you alone,
And in the dark, your eyes shine like the precious stones,
And smile to me, and hear I the voice:
My friend, my sweetest friend... I love... I'm yours... I'm yours!
  

 
  A saint's damnation                
You buy my spirit with those shameless eyes 
That burn my soul, you loose the torrent stream 
Of my desire, you make my lips your prize, 
  
And on them burns the whole life's hope: you deem 
You buy a heart; but I am well aware 
How my damnation dwells in that supreme 
  
Passion to feel upon your shoulders bare, 
And pass the dewy twilight of our sin 
In the intolerable flames of hair 
  
That clothe my body from your head; you win 
The devil's bargain; I am yours to kill, 
Yours, for one kiss; my spirit for your skin! 
  
O bitter love, consuming all my will! 
O love destroying, that hast drained my life 
Of all those fountains of dear blood that fill 
  
My heart! O woman, would I call you wife? 
Would I content you with one touch divine 
To flood your spirit with the clinging strife 
  
Of perfect passionate joy, the joy of wine, 
The drunkenness of extreme pleasure, filled 
From sin's amazing cup. Oh, mine, mine, mine, 
  
Mine, if your kisses maddened me or killed, 
Mine, at the price of my damnation deep, 
Mine, if you will, as once your glances willed! 
  
Take me, or break me, slay or soothe to sleep, 
If only yours one hour, one perfect hour, 
Remembrance and despair and hope to steep. 
  
In the infernal potion of that flower, 
My poisonous passion for your blood! Behold! 
How utterly I yield, how gladly dower 
  
Our sin with my own spirit's quenched gold, 
Clothe love with my own soul's immortal power, 
Give thee my body as a fire to hold-- 
O love, no words, no songs--your breast my bower! 


        At Sea 
   As night hath stars, more rare than ships
   In ocean, faint from pole to pole,
   So all the wonder of her lips
  Hints her innavigable soul.

  Such lights she gives as guide my bark;
  But I am swallowed in the swell
  Of her heart's ocean, sagely dark,
  That holds my heaven and holds my hell.

  In her I live, a mote minute
  Dancing a moment in the sun:
  In her I die, a sterile shoot
  Of nightshade in oblivion.

  In her my elf dissolves, a grain
  Of salt cast careless in the sea;
  My passion purifies my pain
  To peace past personality.

  Love of my life, God grant the years
  Confirm the chrism - rose to rood!
  Anointing loves, asperging tears
  In sanctifying solitude! 

  Man is so infinitely small
  In all these stars, determinate.
  Maker and moulder of them all,
  Man is so infinitely great! 
 
 

       Song in the Garden of the House of God        
(from the Navajo corn-planting ritual)
Truly in the east
The white bean
And the great corn plant
Are tied with the white lightning.
Listen! rain approaches!
The voice of the bluebird is heard.
Truly in the east
The white bean 
And the great squash
Are tied with the rainbow.
Listen! rain approaches!
The voice of the bluebird is heard.
From the top of the great corn-plant the water gurgles, I hear it;
Around the roots the water foams, I hear it;
Around the roots of the plants it foams, I hear it;
From their tops the water foams, I hear it.
The corn grows up. The waters of the dark clouds drop, drop.
The rain descends. The waters from the corn leaves drop, drop.
The rain descends. The waters from the plants drop, drop.
The corn grows up. The waters of the dark mists drop, drop.
Shall I cull this fruit of the great corn-plant?
Shall you break it? Shall I break it?
Shall I break it? Shall you break it?
                Shall I? Shall you?
Shall I cull this fruit of the great squash vine?
Shall you pick it up? shall I pick it up?
Shall I pick it up? Shall you pick it up?
                Shall I? Shall you?
 
Prayer 
(from the Navajo healing ceremony called Night Chant)

Tségihi,
House made of dawn.
House made of evening light.
House made of the dark cloud.
House made of male rain.
House made of dark mist.
House made of female rain.
House made of pollen.
House made of grasshoppers.
Dark cloud is at the door.
The trail out of it is dark cloud.
The zigzag lightning stands high upon it.
Male deity!
Your offering I make.
I have prepared a smoke for you.
Restore my feet for me.
Restore my legs for me.
Restore my body for me.
Restore my mind for me.
This very day take out your spell for me.
Your spell remove for me.
You have taken it away for me.
Far off it has gone.
Happily I recover.
Happily my interior becomes cool.
Happily I go forth.
My interior feeling cool, may I walk.
No longer sore, may I walk.
Impervious to pain, may I walk.
With lively feeling may I walk.
As it used to be long ago, may I walk.
Happily may I walk.
Happily, with abundant dark clouds, may I walk.
Happily, with abundant showers, may I walk.
Happily, with abundant plants, may I walk. 
Happily, on a trail of pollen, may I walk.
Happily may I walk.
Being as it used to be long ago, may I walk.
May it be beautiful before me
May it be beautiful behind me.
May it be beautiful below me.
May it be beautiful above me.
With it be beautiful all around me.
In beauty it is finished.

             Behind me dips Eternity           

Behind Me -- dips Eternity --
Before Me -- Immortality --
Myself -- the Term between --
Death but the Drift of Eastern Gray,
Dissolving into Dawn away,
Before the West begin --
'Tis Kingdoms -- afterward -- they say --
In perfect -- pauseless Monarchy --
Whose Prince -- is Son of None --
Himself -- His Dateless Dynasty --
Himself -- Himself diversify --
In Duplicate divine --
'Tis Miracle before Me -- then --
'Tis Miracle behind -- between --
A Crescent in the Sea --
With Midnight to the North of Her --
And Midnight to the South of Her --
And Maelstrom -- in the Sky -- 
 
Wild Nights

Wild nights! Wild nights!
Were I with thee,
Wild nights should be
Our luxury!
Futile the winds
To a heart in port,
Done with the compass,
Done with the chart.
Rowing in Eden!
Ah! the sea!
Might I but moor
To-night in thee!
 
Dare You See A Soul

Dare you see a Soul at the White Heat?
Then crouch within the door --
Red -- is the Fire's common tint --
But when the vivid Ore
Has vanquished Flame's conditions,
It quivers from the Forge
Without a color, but the light
Of unanointed Blaze.
Least Village has its Blacksmith
Whose Anvil's even ring
Stands symbol for the finer Forge
That soundless tugs -- within --
Refining these impatient Ores
With Hammer, and with Blaze
Until the Designated Light
Repudiate the Forge -