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 kinsman 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 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 her sepulchre there by the sea,
In her tomb by the sounding sea.
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The featured image is courtesy of Pixabay.
I believe the picture is a portrait of Poe’s wife Virginia.
Yes it is, and it is identified as such in the credit line at the bottom of the essay.
Ah, I didn’t see that. – I’ve been re-reading Poe recently – his luxuriant and literate prose style is still a pleasure. I’ve always liked the The Purloined Letter and Dupin’s remark toward the end of the story: “You know my political prepossessions. In this matter, I act as a partisan of the lady concerned.” – Dupin was a conservative and a royalist. At university I wrote an essay on this story, which involved dealing with Lacan, Derrida and sundry divagations of a post-structuralist nature (the letter itself being, of course, a kind of portable signifier). A story can never be just a story in the world of cultural and literary theory.
Thank you for reminding me of the first poem that I ever memorized, not because I wanted to, but because, rather, it forced itself into my memory. Still raw and painful, it is not so much a poem but a cry from his heart.
You are welcome! Indeed, it was Poe’s lament for his dear, dead wife, Virginia.
Such beautiful, yet sad poetry. I am tearing up now, as always when I read it.