I do not love thee !—yet thy speaking eyes, I know I do not love thee! yet, alas! 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 Was welcome at all frontiers. How she leap'd, And while she hid all England with a kiss, 694. 695. IT EDGAR ALLAN POE To Helen HELEN, thy beauty is to me Like those Nicèan barks of yore On desperate seas long wont to roam, How statue-like I see thee stand, Annabel Lee T was many and many a year ago, 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 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. The angels, not half so happy in heaven, Yes! that was the reason (as all men know, That the wind came out of the cloud one night, But our love it was stronger by far than the love Of many far wiser than we— And neither the angels in heaven above, 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 And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side THANK Heaven! the crisis— And the lingering illness Is over at last And the fever called 'Living' Sadly, I know I am shorn of my strength, As I lie at full length: But no matter-I feel I am better at length. And I rest so composedly Might fancy me dead Might start at beholding me, Thinking me dead. The moaning and groaning, Are quieted now, With that horrible throbbing The sickness-the nausea The pitiless pain— Have ceased, with the fever And O! of all tortures That torture the worst -Of a water that flows, 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, In a different bed— And, to sleep, you must slumber In just such a bed. My tantalized spirit Of myrtles and roses: For now, while so quietly |