Ah broken is the golden bowl! the spirit flown forever! Let the bell toll!--a saintly soul floats on the Stygian river; And, Guy De Vere, hast thou no tear?--weep now or never more! See! on yon drear and rigid bier low lies thy love, Lenore! Come! let the burial rite be read--the funeral song be sung!-- An anthem for the queenliest dead that ever died so young-- A dirge for her the doubly dead in that she died so young. "Wretches! ye loved her for her wealth and hated her for her pride, "And when she fell in feeble health, ye blessed her--that she died! "How shall the ritual, then, be read?--the requiem how be sung "By you--by yours, the evil eye,--by yours, the slanderous tongue "That did to death the innocent that died, and died so young?" Peccavimus; but rave not thus! and let a Sabbath song Go up to God so solemnly the dead may feel so wrong! The sweet Lenore hath "gone before," with Hope, that flew beside Leaving thee wild for the dear child that should have been thy bride-- For her, the fair and debonair, that now so lowly lies, The life upon her yellow hair but not within her eyes-- The life still there, upon her hair--the death upon her eyes. "Avaunt! to-night my heart is light. No dirge will I upraise, "But waft the angel on her flight with a Pæan of old days! "Let no bell toll!--lest her sweet soul, amid its hallowed mirth, "Should catch the note, as it doth float up from the damnéd Earth. "To friends above, from fiends below, the indignant ghost is riven-- "From Hell unto a high estate far up within the Heaven-- "From grief and groan, to a golden throne, beside the King of Heaven."
Edgar Allan Poe - 1809-1849
To Marie Louise (Shew)
Of all who hail thy presence as the morning— Of all to whom thine absence is the night— The blotting utterly from out high heaven The sacred sun—of all who, weeping, bless thee Hourly for hope—for life—ah! above all, For the resurrection of deep-buried faith In Truth—in Virtue—in Humanity— Of all who, on Despair’s unhallowed bed Lying down to die, have suddenly arisen At thy soft-murmured words, “Let there be light!” At the soft-murmured words that were fulfilled In the seraphic glancing of thine eyes— Of all who owe thee most—whose gratitude Nearest resembles worship—oh, remember The truest—the most fervently devoted, And think that these weak lines are written by him— By him who, as he pens them, thrills to think His spirit is communing with an angel’s.