}

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.

THE skies they were ashen, and sober;
The leaves they were crispèd 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)

We 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 mornAs the star-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 Astarte's bediamonded crescent Distinct with its duplicate horn.

And I said

"She is warmer than Dian; She rolls through an ether of sighs She revels in a region of sighs

She has seen that the tears are not dry on

These cheeks, where the worm never dies, And has come past the stars of the Lion To point us the path to the skies To the Lethean peace of the skies Come up, in despite of the Lion,

To shine on us with her bright eyes Come up through the lair of the Lion, With love in her luminous eyes."

But Psyche, uplifting her finger,

Said

"Sadly this star I mistrust

Her pallor I strangely mistrust Ah, hasten! Ah, let us not linger!

Ah, fly! let us fly! for we must."

In terror she spoke, letting sink her

Wings till they trailed in the dust