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 wingèd 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 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 seaCan 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.Who did Annabel Lee have sex with? I bet it was a freed slave.
I could only ever read this to the melody from the first few lines of "Arabian Nights" from the Disney film Aladdin.
>>24763961>And this maiden she lived with no other thought>Than to love and be loved by me.get over yourself, poe, not everything is about you.
This reads like The Big Rock Candy Mountain.
Nabokov stole this for Lolita, but unlike the narrator of the poem who accepts Annabel's death, HH spends the rest of his life trying to complete his unfulfilled relationship with Annabel Leigh.
After his wife died, Poe's poetry took on a complete other level
>>24763961His Love poetry is seriously underratedAt midnight, in the month of June,I stand beneath the mystic moon.An opiate vapor, dewy, dim,Exhales from out her golden rim,And softly dripping, drop by drop,Upon the quiet mountain top,Steals drowsily and musicallyInto the universal valley.The rosemary nods upon the grave;The lily lolls upon the wave;Wrapping the fog about its breast,The ruin moulders into rest;Looking like Lethe, see! the lakeA conscious slumber seems to take,And would not, for the world, awake.All Beauty sleeps!—and lo! where liesIrene, with her Destinies!Oh, lady bright! can it be right—This window open to the night?The wanton airs, from the tree-top,Laughingly through the lattice drop—The bodiless airs, a wizard rout,Flit through thy chamber in and out,And wave the curtain canopySo fitfully—so fearfully—Above the closed and fringéd lid’Neath which thy slumb’ring soul lies hid,That, o’er the floor and down the wall,Like ghosts the shadows rise and fall!Oh, lady dear, hast thou no fear?Why and what art thou dreaming here?Sure thou art come o’er far-off seas,A wonder to these garden trees!Strange is thy pallor! strange thy dress!Strange, above all, thy length of tress,And this all solemn silentness!The lady sleeps! Oh, may her sleep,Which is enduring, so be deep!Heaven have her in its sacred keep!This chamber changed for one more holy,This bed for one more melancholy,I pray to God that she may lieForever with unopened eye,While the pale sheeted ghosts go by!My love, she sleeps! Oh, may her sleep,As it is lasting, so be deep!Soft may the worms about her creep!Far in the forest, dim and old,For her may some tall vault unfold—Some vault that oft hath flung its blackAnd wingéd pannels fluttering back,Triumphant, o’er the crested pallsOf her grand family funerals—Some sepulchre, remote, alone,Against whose portals she hath thrown,In childhood, many an idle stone—Some tomb from out whose sounding doorShe ne’er shall force an echo more,Thrilling to think, poor child of sin!It was the dead who groaned within.
Take this kiss upon the brow!And, in parting from you now,Thus much let me avow —You are not wrong, who deemThat my days have been a dream;Yet if hope has flown awayIn a night, or in a day,In a vision, or in none,Is it therefore the less gone? All that we see or seemIs but a dream within a dream.I stand amid the roarOf a surf-tormented shore,And I hold within my handGrains of the golden sand —How few! yet how they creepThrough my fingers to the deep,While I weep — while I weep!O God! Can I not graspThem with a tighter clasp?O God! can I not saveOne from the pitiless wave?Is all that we see or seemBut a dream within a dream?OP has mutt porn addiction syndrome!!!
>>24764711Lolita has another Poe source in William Wilson, the evil twin being chased by his benevolent alter ego respresenting his own conscience.
>>24764711I think using Annabel Lee more of an allusion to Poe's teeny bopper wife.
