The Complete Poetry - Эдгар Аллан По

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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!

       III

      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!

       IV

      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 toiling, toiling, toiling,

       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,

       Rolls

       A pæan from the bells!

       And his merry bosom swells

       With the pæan of the bells!

       And he dances, and he yells;

       Keeping time, time, time,

       In a sort of Runic rhyme,

       To the pæan 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.

      Ulalume

       Table of Contents

      The skies they were ashen and sober;

       The leaves they were crisped and sere—

       The leaves they were withering and sere;

       It was night in the lonesome October

       Of my most immemorial year;

       It was hard by the dim lake of Auber,

       In the misty mid region of Weir—

       It was down by the dank tarn of Auber,

       In the ghoul-haunted woodland of Weir.

       Here once, through an alley Titanic.

       Of cypress, I roamed with my Soul—

       Of cypress, with Psyche, my Soul.

       These were days when my heart was volcanic

       As the scoriac rivers that roll—

       As the lavas that restlessly roll

       Their sulphurous currents down Yaanek

       In the ultimate climes of the pole—

       That groan as they roll down Mount Yaanek

       In the realms of the boreal pole.

       Our talk had been serious and sober,

       But our thoughts they were palsied and sere—

       Our memories were treacherous and sere—

       For we knew not the month was October,

       And we marked not the night of the year—

       (Ah, night of all nights in the year!)

       We noted not the dim lake of Auber—

       (Though once we had journeyed down here)—

       Remembered not the dank tarn of Auber,

       Nor the ghoul-haunted woodland of Weir.

       And now as the night was senescent

       And star-dials pointed to morn—

       As the sun-dials hinted of morn—

       At the end of our path a liquescent

       And nebulous lustre was born,

       Out of which a miraculous crescent

       Arose with a duplicate horn—

      

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