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 then 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 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 then we--
	Of many far wiser then we--
And neither the angels in heaven above,
	Nor the demons down under the sea,
Could 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 sepulchre there by the sea,
	In her tomb by the sounding sea.


Edgar Allan Poe

BELOVED! amid the earnest woes
   That crowd around myearthly path--
(Drear path, alas! where grows
Not even one lonly rose)--
   My soul at least a solace hath
In dreams of thee, and therein knows
An Eden of bland repose.

And thus thy memory is to me
   Like some enchanted far-off isle
In some tumultuous sea--
Some ocean throbbing far and free
   With storms--but where meanwhile
Serenest skies continually
   Just o'er that one bright island smile.


Edgar Allan Poe

TIGER, tiger, burning bright   
In the forests of the night,   
What immortal hand or eye   
Could frame thy fearful symmetry?   
  
In what distant deeps or skies         
Burnt the fire of thine eyes?   
On what wings dare he aspire?   
What the hand dare seize the fire?   
  
And what shoulder and what art   
Could twist the sinews of thy heart?   
And when thy heart began to beat,   
What dread hand and what dread feet?   
  
What the hammer? what the chain?   
In what furnace was thy brain?   
What the anvil? What dread grasp  
Dare its deadly terrors clasp?   
  
When the stars threw down their spears,   
And water'd heaven with their tears,   
Did He smile His work to see?   
Did He who made the lamb make thee?   
  
Tiger, tiger, burning bright   
In the forests of the night,   
What immortal hand or eye   
Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?   
  

William Blake

O Rose, thou art sick! 
The invisible worm
That flies in the night,
In the howling storm,

Has found out thy bed
Of crimson joy:
And his dark secret love
Does thy life destroy. 


William Blake

Little Fly
Thy summers play,
My thoughtless hand
Has brush'd away.

Am not I
A fly like thee?
Or art not thou
A man like me?

For I dance
And drink & sing:
Till some blind hand
Shall brush my wing.

If thought is life
And strength & breath:
And the want
Of thought is death;

Then am I
A happy fly,
If I live,
Or if I die.


William Blake

Long has paled that sunny sky: 
Echoes fade and memories die: 
Autumn frosts have slain July. 

Still she haunts me, phantomwise, 
Alice moving under skies 
Never seen by waking eyes. 

In a Wonderland they lie, 
Dreaming as the days go by, 
Dreaming as the summers die: 

Ever drifting down the stream -- 
Lingering in the golden dream -- 
Life, what is it but a dream?


Lewis Carrol
(stanzas 1, 2 and 5 are omitted here)

pity this busy monster,manunkind,

not. Progress is a comfortable disease:
your victum(death and life safely beyond)

plays with the bigness of his littleness
-electrons deify one razorblade
into a mountainrange;lenses extend

unwish through curving wherewhen until unwish
returns on its unself.
			A world of made
is not a world of born-pity poor flesh

and trees,poor stars and stones,but never this
fine specimen of hypermagical

ultraomnipotence. We doctors know

a hopeless case if-listen:there's a hell
of a good universe next door;let's go

		e.e.cummings