I do not love thee !—yet thy speaking eyes,
With their deep, bright, and most expressive blue,
Between me and the midnight heaven arise,
Oftener than any eyes I ever knew.

I know I do not love thee! yet, alas!
Others will scarcely trust my candid heart;
And oft I catch them smiling as they pass,
Because they see me gazing where thou art.

693.

CHARLES TENNYSON TURNER

Letty's Globe

1808-1879

WHEN Letty had scarce pass'd her third glad year,

And her young artless words began to flow,

One day we gave the child a colour'd sphere

Of the wide earth, that she might mark and know, By tint and outline, all its sea and land.

She patted all the world; old empires peep'd
Between her baby fingers; her soft hand

Was welcome at all frontiers. How she leap'd,
And laugh'd and prattled in her world-wide bliss;
But when we turn'd her sweet unlearnèd eye
On our own isle, she raised a joyous cry-
'Oh! yes, I see it, Letty's home is there!'

And while she hid all England with a kiss,
Bright over Europe fell her golden hair.

694.

695.

IT

EDGAR ALLAN POE

To Helen

HELEN, thy beauty is to me

Like those Nicèan barks of yore
That gently, o'er a perfumed sea,
The weary way-worn wanderer bore
To his own native shore.

On desperate seas long wont to roam,
Thy hyacinth hair, thy classic face,
Thy Naiad airs have brought me home
To the glory that was Greece,
And the grandeur that was Rome.
Lo, in yon brilliant window-niche

How statue-like I see thee stand,
The agate lamp within thy hand,
Ah! Psyche, from the regions which
Are holy land!

Annabel Lee

T was many and many a year ago,
In a kingdom by the sea,

1809-1849

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 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 the cloud one 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 the sepulchre there by the sea,
In her tomb by the sounding sea.

THANK Heaven! the crisis—
The danger is past,

And the lingering illness

Is over at last

And the fever called 'Living'
Is conquer'd 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 madden'd my brain-
With the fever called 'Living'
That burn'd in my brain.

And O! of all tortures

That torture the worst
Has abated-the terrible
Torture of thirst
For the naphthaline river
Of Passion accurst-
I have drunk of a water
That quenches all thirst.

-Of a water that flows,
With a lullaby sound,

From a spring but a very

Feet under ground

From a cavern not very far

Down under ground.

And ah! let it never

Be foolishly said

few

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