Original subtitles

Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered weak and weary, over many a

and curious volume of forgotten lore, while I nodded nearly napping, suddenly

there came a tapping, as of someone gently rapping, rapping at my chamber

Is some visitor, I muttered, tapping at my chamber door, only this, and

nothing more.

Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December.

and each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.

Eagerly I wished the morrow, vainly I had sought to borrow.

From my books the cease of sorrow, sorrow for the lost Lenore, for the rare

radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore, nameless here forevermore.

And the silken, sad, uncertain rustling of each purple curtain thrilled me.

filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before, so that now, to still the

beating of my heart, I stood repeating, "'Tis some visitor entreating entrance

at my chamber door, some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door,

this it is, and nothing more." Presently my soul grew stronger,

hesitating then no longer, sir, said I, or, madam, truly your forgiveness I

implore. But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping, and so

faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door, that I scarce was sure I

heard you.

Here I opened wide the door, darkness there and nothing more.

Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,

doubting, dreaming dreams no mortals ever dared to dream before.

But the silence was unbroken.

and the stillness gave no token, and the only word there spoken was the

whispered word, Lenore.

This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, Lenore.

Merely this, and nothing more.

Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning, soon again I

a tapping somewhat louder than before.

Surely, said I, surely that is something at my window lattice.

Let me see then what thereat is, and this mystery explore.

Let my heart be still a moment, and this mystery explore.

Tis the wind, and nothing more.

Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter, In there

stepped a stately raven of the saintly days of yore.

Not the least obeisance made he, not a minute stopped or stayed he, But with

mean of lord or lady.

Perched above my chamber door, Perched upon a bust of palace, Just above my

chamber door, Perched and sat, and nothing more.

Then this ebony bird, Beguiling my sad fancy into smiling, By the grave and

stern decorum Of the countenance it wore,

Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, Thou, I said, art sure no craven.

ghastly, grim, and ancient raven wandering from the nightly shore.

Tell me what thy lordly name is on the night's plutonian shore, quoth the

nevermore.

Much I marveled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly, though its

answer little meaning, little relevancy bore, for we cannot help agreeing that

no living human being ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his

door.

bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door, with such name

Nevermore.

But the raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only that one word,

if his soul in that one word he did outpour.

Nothing farther than he uttered, not a feather than he fluttered.

Till I scarcely more than muttered, other friends have flown before.

On the morrow he will leave me, as my hopes have flown before.

Then the bird said, never more.

Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken.

Doubtless, said I, what it utters is its only stock and store.

Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful disaster.

Followed fast and followed faster till his song's one burden bore.

Till the dirges of his hope that melancholy burden bore.

Of never, never more.

But the raven still beguiling all my fancy into smiling.

Straight, I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird and bust and door.

Then upon the velvet sinking I betook myself to linking.

Fancy unto fancy thinking what this ominous bird of yore.

What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt and ominous bird of yore.

Meant in croaking nevermore.

This I sat engaged in guessing, But no syllable expressing.

To the fowl whose fiery eyes Now burned into my bosom's core, This and more I

sat divining, With my head at ease reclining.

On the cushion's velvet lining That the lamplight gloated o 'er, But whose

velvet violet lining With the lamplight gloating o 'er, She shall press, ah,

nevermore.

Then methought the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer, swung by

seraphim whose footfalls tinkled on the tufted floor.

Wretch, I cried, thy God hath lent thee, by these angels he hath sent thee.

Respite, respite, and nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore.

Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe, and forget this lost Lenore.

Quoth the raven, never more.

Prophet, said I, thing of evil, Prophet still if bird or devil, Whether tempter

sent or whether tempest Tossed thee here ashore, Desolate yet all undaunted, On

this desert land enchanted, On this home by horror haunted, Tell me truly I

implore, Is there, is there balm in Gilead?

Tell me, tell me I implore, Quoth the raven, nevermore.

Prophet, said I, thing of evil, Prophet still, if bird or devil, by that heaven

that bends above us, by that god we both adore, tell this soul with sorrow laden

if, within the distant Aden, it shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels

name Lenore, clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore,

the raven, nevermore.

Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend, I shrieked, upstarting.

Get thee back into the tempest and the night's plutonian shore.

Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken.

Leave my loneliness unbroken.

Quit the bust above my door.

Take thy beak from out my heart and take thy form from off my door.

Quoth the raven, nevermore.

And the raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting on the pallid

bust of palace just above my chamber door.

and his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming, and the

lamplight o 'er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor, and my soul from

out that shadow that lies floating on the floor shall be lifted nevermore.

Annabel Lee 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 Annabelle 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 Annabelle Lee were the love that the winged seraphs of heaven

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 high -born

kinsman 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

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 the sepulcher there by the sea.

In her tomb by the sounding sea.

A dream within a dream.

Take this kiss upon the brow, And imparting 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

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 waves is all that we see or

but a dream within a dream.

Alone. From childhood's hour I have not been as others were.

I have not seen as others saw.

I could not bring my passions from a common spring.

From the same source I have not taken my sorrow.

I could not awaken my heart to joy at the same tone.

And all I loved, I loved alone.

Then in my childhood in the dawn of a most stormy life was drawn.

from every depth of good and ill, the mystery which binds me still, from the

torrent or the fountain, from the red cliff of the mountain, from the sun that

round me rolled, in its autumn tint of gold, from the lightning in the sky,

as it passed me flying by, from the thunder and the storm, and the cloud

that took the form when the rest of heaven was blue.

of a demon in my view.

El Dorado Gaily bedight a gallant knight, in sunshine and

in shadow, had journeyed long, singing a song, in search of El Dorado.

But he grew old, this knight so bold, and o 'er his heart a shadow, fell as he

found no spot of ground.

that looked like El Dorado.

And as his strength failed him at length, he met a pilgrim shadow.

Shadow, said he, where can it be, this land of El Dorado?

Over the mountains, of the moon, down the valley of the shadow.

Ride, boldly ride, the shade replied, if you seek for El Dorado.

Tamerlane Kind solace in a dying hour.

Such father is not now my theme.

I will not madly deem that power.

Of earth may shrive me of the sin.

Unearthly pride hath reveled in.

I have no time to dote or dream.

You call it hope, that fire of fire.

It is but agony of desire.

If I can hope, O God, I can.

Its fount is holier, more divine, I would not call thee fool, old man, But

is not a gift of thine.

Know thou the secret of a spirit, Bowed from its wild pride into shame, O

yearning heart, I did inherit, Thy withering portion with the fame, The

glory which hath shone, Amid the jewels of my throne, Halo of hell, and with a

pain, Not hell shall make me fear again, O craving heart, for the lost flowers,

And sunshine of my summer hours, The undying voice of that dead time With its

interminable chime, Rings in the spirit of a spell, Upon thy emptiness, a knell.

I have not always been as now, The fevered diadem on my brow, I claimed and

usurpingly, Hath not the same fierce air dumb given, Rome to the Caesar, this to

me.

the heritage of a kingly mind and a proud spirit which hath striven

with humankind.

On mountain soil I first drew life, the mists of the taglay have shed,

nightly their dews upon my head, and I believe the winged strife and tumult of

the headlong air have nestled in my very hair.

So late from heaven that dew it fell.

mid -dreams of an unholy night.

Upon me, with the touch of hell, while the red flashing of the light, from

clouds that hung like banners o 'er, appeared to my half -closing eye, the

pageantry of monarchy and the deep trumpet thunders roar, came hurriedly

me, telling of human battle where my voice, my own voice, silly child, was

swelling.

Oh, how my spirit would rejoice and leap within me at the cry, the battle cry of

victory.

The rain came down upon my head, unsheltered, and the heavy wind rendered

and deaf and blind.

It was but man, I thought, who shed.

Laurels upon me, and the rush, the torrent of the chilly air, gurgled

ear the crush of empires with the captive's prayer.

The hum of suitors and the tone, A flattery round a sovereign's throne.

My passions, from that hapless hour, Usurped a tyranny which men have deemed,

Since I have reached to power, My innate nature be it so.

But father, there lived one who then, Then in my boyhood, when their fire,

Burned with a still intenser glow, For passion must with youth expire.

Ian then who knew this iron heart, In woman's weakness had a part.

I have no words, alas, to tell The loveliness of loving well, Nor would I

attempt to trace The more than beauty of a face, Whose lineaments upon my mind

Are shadows on the unstable wind.

Thus I remember having dwelt Some page of early lore upon With loitering eye,

till I have felt.

The letters with their meaning melt to fantasies with none.

Oh, she was worthy of all love, love as in infancy was mine.

T 'was such as angel minds above might envy her young heart the shrine, on

which my every hope and thought were incense than a goodly gift, for they

childish and upright, pure as her young example taught.

Why did I leave it?

and adrift, trussed to the fire within for light.

We grew in age and love together, roaming the forest and the wild, my

shield in wintry weather, and when the friendly sunshine smiled, and she would

mark the opening skies, I saw no heaven but in her eyes.

Young love's first lesson is the heart, for mid that sunshine and those smiles,

When from our little cares apart, and laughing at her girlish wiles, I'd throw

me on her throbbing breast, and pour my spirit out in tears.

There was no need to speak the rest, no need to quiet any fears, of her who

asked no reason why, but turned on me her quiet eye.

Yet more than worthy of the love, my spirit struggled with and strove, when

the mountain peak alone, Ambition lent it a new tone.

I had no being but in thee, the world and all it did contain.

In the earth, the air, the sea, its joy, its little lot of pain.

That was new pleasure, the ideal, dim vanities of dreams by night.

And dimmer nothings which were real, shadows and a more shadowy light,

parted upon their misty wings.

and so confusedly became, thine image and a name, a name, two separate yet

intimate things.

I was ambitious, have you known?

The passion, father.

You have not, a cottager I marked a throne, of half the world as all my own,

murmured at such lowly lot, but just like any other dream, upon the vapor of

dew, my own had passed, did not the beam.

of beauty which did while it throw, the minute, the hour, the day, a breath,

my mind with double loveliness.

We walked together on the crown of a high mountain which looked down afar

its proud natural towers, of rock and forest on the hills, the dwindled hills,

begirt with bowers and shouting with a thousand rills.

spoke to her of power and pride, but mystically in such guise that she might

deem it naught beside.

The moments converse in her eyes.

I read, perhaps too carelessly, a mingled feeling with my own.

The flush on her bright cheek, to me, seemed to become a queenly throne.

Too well that I should let it be, light in the wilderness alone.

I wrapped myself in grandeur then, and under visionary crown.

Yet it was not that fantasy, had thrown her mantle over me.

But that, among the rabble men, lion ambition is chained down, and crouches

keeper's hand.

Not so in deserts where the grand, the wild, the terrible conspire, with their

own breath to fan his fire.

Look round thee now on Samarkand.

Is not she queen of earth, her pride above all cities?

In her hand, their destinies, in all beside, of glory which the world hath

known, stands she not nobly and alone?

Falling, her veriest stepping -stone, shall form the pedestal of a throne, and

who her sovereign?

Timur, he, whom the astonished people saw, striding o 'er empires haughtily.

A diadem'd outlaw.

O human love, thou spirit given, On earth of all we hope in heaven, Which

fall'st into the soul -like rain, Upon the Sarac wither'd plain, And failing in

thy power to bless, But leav'st the heart a wilderness, Idea, which bind'st

around, With music of so strange a sound, And beauty of so wild a birth.

Farewell, for I have won the earth.

When hope, the eagle that towered, could see, no cliff beyond him in the sky,

his pinions were bent droopingly, and homeward turned his softened eye.

To a sunset, when the sun will part, there comes a sullenness of heart, to

who still would look upon, the glory of the summer sun.

That soul will hate the ervening mist, so often lovely, and will list, to the

sound of the coming darkness, Known to those whose spirits hearken as one, Who

in a dream of night would fly, But cannot from a danger nigh.

What though the moon, the white moon, Shed all the splendor of her noon, Her

smile is chilly and her beam In that time of dreariness will seem, So like

gather in your breath A portrait taken after death, And boyhood is a summer

whose waning is the dreariest one.

For all we live to know is known, and all we seek to keep hath flown.

Let life then, as the day -flower, fall with the noon -day beauty, which is all.

I reached my home, my home no more, for all had flown who made it so.

I passed from out its mossy door, and though my tread was soft and low, a

came from the threshold stone,

Of one whom I had earlier known, O I defy thee hell to show, On beds of fire

that burn below a humbler heart, A deeper woe.

Father, I firmly do believe, I know for death who comes for me, From regions of

the blessed afar, Where there is nothing to deceive, Hath left his iron gate

ajar, And rays of truth you cannot see, Are flashing through eternity.

I do believe that Eblis hath a snare in every human path.

Else how, when in the holy grove, I wandered of the idle love who daily

his snowy wings, with incense of burnt offerings, from the most unpolluted

things, whose pleasant bowers are yet so riven, above with trellised rays from

heaven, no mote may shun, no tiniest fly, the lightning of his eagle eye.

How was it that ambition crept unseen amid the revels there, till growing bold

he laughed and leapt in the tangles of love's very hair?

The City in the Sea Lo, death has reared himself a throne,

in a strange city lying alone, far down within the dim west.

Where the good and the bad and the worst and the best have gone to their eternal

rest. Their shrines and palaces and towers, time -eaten towers that tremble

resemble nothing that is ours.

Around, by lifting winds forgot, resignedly beneath the sky, the

waters he.

No rays from the holy heaven come down on the long night time of that town.

But light from out the lurid sea Streams up the turrets silently, Gleams up the

pinnacles far and free, Up domes, up spires, up kingly halls, Up fanes,

up Babylon -like walls, Up shadowy, long -forgotten bowers, Up sculptured ivy

and stone flowers, Up many and many a marvellous shrine, Whose wreathed

intertwine The vial, the violet and the vine.

Resignedly beneath the sky The melancholy waters lie So blend the

shadows there That all seem pendulous in air While from a proud tower in the

town Death looks gigantically down Their open fanes and

gaping graves Yawn level with the luminous waves But not the riches there

lie In each idol's diamond eye

Not the gaily jeweled dead, tempt the waters from their bed.

For no ripples curl, alas, along that wilderness of glass.

No swellings tell that winds may be, upon some far -off happier sea.

No heavings hint that winds have been, on seas less hideously serene.

But lo, a stir is in the air, the wave, there is a movement there.

As if the towers had thrust aside in slightly sinking, the dull tide, as if

their tops had feebly given, a void within the filmy heaven.

The waves have now a redder glow, the hours are breathing faint and low, and

when amid no earthly moans, down, down that town shall settle hence, hell

from a thousand thrones shall do it reverence.

The Sleeper At 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 mountaintop, steals drowsily and

universal valley.

The rosemary nods upon the grave, the lily lulls upon the wave, wrapping the

about its breast.

The ruin moulders into rest, looking like Lisa, see?

The lake, a conscious slumber seems to take, and would not, for the world,

awake.

All beauty sleeps, and lo!

Where lies Irene with her destinies?

O Lady Bright, can it be right?

This window open to the night?

The wanton airs from the treetop, laughingly through the lattice drop.

The bodiless airs.

A wizard rout, Flit through thy chamber in and out, And wave the curtain canopy,

So fitfully, so fearfully, Above the closed and fringed lid, Neath

which thy slumbering soul lies hid, That, o 'er the floor and down the wall,

Like ghosts the shadows rise and fall.

O 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

and this all solemn silentness.

The lady sleeps.

O 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 lie, forever 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 black, and winged panels fluttering

triumphant o 'er the crested pools.

Of 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 door, She ne 'er

shall force an echo more, Thrilling to think, poor child of sin, It was the

who groaned within.