Edgar Allan Poe

Edgar Allan Poe Poetry:

The Bells

(published 1849)
 
                                   I.

               HEAR the sledges with the bells --
                     Silver bells !
What a world of merriment their melody foretells !
          How they tinkle, tinkle, tinkle,
                In the icy air of night !
          While the stars that oversprinkle
          All the heavens, seem to twinkle
                With a crystalline delight ;
             Keeping time, time, time,
             In a sort of Runic rhyme,
To the tintinnabulation that so musically wells
      From the bells, bells, bells, bells,
                     Bells, bells, bells --
   From the jingling and the tinkling of the bells.

                                 II.

               Hear the mellow wedding bells
                     Golden bells!
What a world of happiness their harmony foretells !
          Through the balmy air of night
          How they ring out their delight !
                From the molten-golden notes,
                     And all in tune,
                What a liquid ditty floats
      To the turtle-dove that listens, while she gloats
                     On the moon !
             Oh, from out the sounding cells,
What a gush of euphony voluminously wells !
                     How it swells !
                     How it dwells
                On the Future ! how it tells
                Of the rapture that impels
             To the swinging and the ringing
                Of the bells, bells, bells,
      Of the bells, bells, bells, bells,
                     Bells, bells, bells --
   To the rhyming and the chiming of the bells !

                                 III.

               Hear the loud alarum bells --
                         Brazen bells !
What tale of terror, now, their turbulency tells !
          In the startled ear of night
          How they scream out their affright !
               Too much horrified to speak,
               They can only shriek, shriek,
                         Out of tune,
In a clamorous appealing to the mercy of the fire,
In a mad expostulation with the deaf and frantic fire,
                  Leaping higher, higher, higher,
                  With a desperate desire,
               And a resolute endeavor
               Now -- now to sit or never,
          By the side of the pale-faced moon.
                  Oh, the bells, bells, bells !
                  What a tale their terror tells
                         Of Despair !
       How they clang, and clash, and roar !
       What a horror they outpour
On the bosom of the palpitating air !
          Yet the ear, it fully knows,
                By the twanging,
                And the clanging,
            How the danger ebbs and flows ;
       Yet, the ear distinctly tells,
             In the jangling,
             And the wrangling,
       How the danger sinks and swells,
By the sinking or the swelling in the anger of the bells --
                  Of the bells --
      Of the bells, bells, bells, bells,
             Bells, bells, bells --
   In the clamour and the clangour of the bells !

                                 IV.

               Hear the tolling of the bells --
                     Iron bells !
What a world of solemn thought their monody compels !
       In the silence of the night,
       How we shiver with affright
    At the melancholy meaning of their tone !
            For every sound that floats
            From the rust within their throats
                   Is a groan.
            And the people -- ah, the people --
            They that dwell up in the steeple,
                   All alone,
            And who, tolling, tolling, tolling,
                In that muffled monotone,
            Feel a glory in so rolling
                On the human heart a stone --
       They are neither man nor woman --
       They are neither brute nor human --
                   They are Ghouls: --
            And their king it is who tolls ;
            And he rolls, rolls, rolls, rolls,
                     Rolls
                A pæan from the bells !
            And his merry bosom swells
                With the pæan of the bells !
            And he dances, and he yells ;
       Keeping time, time, time,
       In a sort of Runic rhyme,
                To the pæan of the bells --
                     Of the bells :
       Keeping time, time, time,
       In a sort of Runic rhyme,
                To the throbbing of the bells --
            Of the bells, bells, bells --
                To the sobbing of the bells ;
       Keeping time, time, time,
            As he knells, knells, knells,
       In a happy Runic rhyme,
                To the rolling of the bells --
            Of the bells, bells, bells --
                To the tolling of the bells,
      Of the bells, bells, bells, bells --
                     Bells, bells, bells --
   To the moaning and the groaning of the bells.

A Dream Within A Dream 

Take this kiss upon the brow!
And, in parting from you now,
Thus much let me avow --
You are not wrong, who deem
That my days have been a dream;
Yet if hope has flown away
In a night, or in a day,
In a vision, or in none,
Is it therefore the less gone?
All that we see or seem
Is but a dream within a dream.

I stand amid the roar
Of a surf-tormented shore,
And I hold within my hand
Grains of the golden sand --
How few! yet how they creep
Through my fingers to the deep,
While I weep -- while I weep!
O God! can I not grasp
Them with a tighter clasp?
O God! can I not save
One from the pitiless wave?
Is all that we see or seem
But a dream within a dream?