Edgar Allen Poe 1809-1849
was an American writer, poet, editor, and literary critic. Poe is best known for his poetry and short stories, particularly his tales of mystery and the macabre. He is widely regarded as a central figure of Romanticism in the United States and of American literature as a whole, and he was one of the country's earliest practitioners of the short story. He is also generally considered the inventor of the detective fiction genre and is further credited with contributing to the emerging genre of science fiction. Poe was the first well-known American writer to earn a living through writing alone, resulting in a financially difficult life and career. (thanks Wikipedia!)
This cache is part of a series inspired by GC934YH: The Poet Laureate of the Town Line. It is a series of caches about poets, the poems they wrote and which particular poem is a personal favorite.
I have always enjoyed Poe's writings, the Mask of the Red Death seems almost too apropos to our current situation. The concept of being stuck in a dark room with a gaping pit in the center still occasionally haunts my dreams and of course who could forget Lenore?
Contrary to what many may think however my favorite Poe poem is not the Raven, as Epic as it may be, and as awsome as the Simpson's version was. It remains to this day his poem the Bells. In true Poe fashion the happy moments, the birthing and wedding bells are mere paragraphs to the tale of woe that follows in the alarm bells followed by funerary bells
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.
The spacing here is true to the original style that Poe wrote in. No one is quite sure why he spaced it this way, but he clearly had some purpose in mind. Please replace the cache as you found it. I am hoping that it holds up ok, but if you are gentle that will help.