I do not think thou hast forgot,

I know that I shall not forget,
And some day, glad, but wondering not,
We two shall meet, and, face to face,
In still, fair fields unseen as yet,

Shall talk of each old time and place,
And smile at pain interpreted

By wisdom learned since we were dead.
Sarah Chauncey Woolsey [1845-1905]

LOVE AND DEATH

IN the wild autumn weather, when the rain was on the sea, And the boughs sobbed together, Death came and spake to

me:

"Those red drops of thy heart I have come to take from

thee;

As the storm sheds the rose, so thy love shall broken be," Said Death to me.

Then I stood straight and fearless while the rain was in the

wave,

And I spake low and tearless: "When thou hast made my

grave,

Those red drops from my heart then thou shalt surely have; But the rose keeps its bloom, as I my love will save

All for my grave."

In the wild autumn weather a dread sword slipped from its sheath;

While the boughs sobbed together, I fought a fight with Death,

And I vanquished him with prayer, and I vanquished him by faith:

Now the summer air is sweet with the rose's fragrant breath That conquered Death.

Rosa Mulholland [18

Annabel Lee

1077

TO ONE IN PARADISE

THOU wast all that to me, love,

For which my soul did pine:
A green isle in the sea, love,

A fountain and a shrine

All wreathed with fairy fruits and flowers,

And all the flowers were mine.

Ah, dream too bright to last!

Ah, starry Hope, that didst arise
But to be overcast!

A voice from out of the Future cries,
"On! on!"-but o'er the Past

(Dim gulf!) my spirit hovering lies Mute, motionless, aghast.

For, alas! alas! with me

The light of Life is o'er!

No more no more-no more-
(Such language holds the solemn sea
To the sands upon the shore)
Shall bloom the thunder-blasted tree,
Or the stricken eagle soar.

And all my days are trances,

And all my nightly dreams
Are where thy dark eye glances,
And where thy footstep gleams-

In what ethereal dances,

By what eternal streams.

Edgar Allan Poe [1809-1849]

ANNABEL 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 sepulcher

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 the sepulcher there by the sea,

In her tomb by the sounding sea.

Edgar Allan Poe [1809-1849]

For Annie

1079

FOR ANNIE

THANK Heaven! the crisis-
The danger is past,
And the lingering illness

Is over at last

And the fever called "Living"
Is conquered 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 maddened my brainWith the fever called "Living" That burned 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 few
Feet under ground-
From a cavern not very far

Down under ground.

And ah! let it never

Be foolishly said

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 rosesIts old agitations

Of myrtles and roses: For now, while so quietly

Lying, it fancies

A holier odor

About it, of pansies

A rosemary odor,

Commingled with pansies

With rue and the beautiful

Puritan pansies.

And so it lies happily,

Bathing in many

A dream of the truth

And the beauty of Annie

Drowned in a bath

Of the tresses of Annie.