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Library of the best American literature: Containing the lives of our authors in story form, their portraits, their homes, and their personal traits, how they worked and what they wrote; choice selections from eminent writers, embracing great American poets and novelists, foremost women in American letters, distinguished critics and essayists, our national humorists, noted journalists and magazine contributors, popular writers for young people, great orators and public lecturers — John Shaqi

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Library of the best American literature: Containing the lives of our authors in story form, their portraits, their homes, and their personal traits, how they worked and what they wrote; choice selections from eminent writers, embracing great American poets and novelists, foremost women in American letters, distinguished critics and essayists, our national humorists, noted journalists and magazine contributors, popular writers for young people, great orators and public lecturers

American literature

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.

                   *       *       *       *       *


                              TO HELEN.

  The following poem was published first “To ――――,” afterwards
  the title was changed, “To Helen.” It seems to have been
  written by Poe to Mrs. Sarah Ellen Whitman whom many years
  afterwards he was engaged to marry. The engagement was,
  however, broken off. The poem was no doubt written before
  his acquaintance with the lady; even before his marriage or
  engagement to his wife, and at a time perhaps when he did not
  expect to be recognized as a suitor by the unknown woman who
  had completely captured his heart, in the chance meeting which
  he here so beautifully describes.

    I SAW thee once――once only――years ago:
    I must not say how many――but not many.
    It was a July midnight; and from out
    A full-orbed moon that, like thine own soul, soaring,
    Sought a precipitant pathway up through heaven,
    There fell a silvery-silken veil of light,
    With quietude, and sultriness, and slumber,
    Upon the upturned faces of a thousand
    Roses that grew in an enchanted garden,
    Where no wind dared to stir, unless on tiptoe――
    Fell on the upturned faces of these roses
    That gave out, in return for the love-light,
    Their odorous souls in an ecstatic death――
    Fell on the upturned faces of these roses
    That smiled and died in this parterre, enchanted
    By thee and by the poetry of thy presence.

  Illustration:   CLAD ALL IN WHITE, UPON A VIOLET BANK
                I SAW THEE HALF RECLINING; WHILE THE MOON
                FELL ON THE UPTURNED FACES OF THE ROSES,
                AND ON THINE OWN, UPTURNED――ALAS! IN SORROW.

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