For the moon never beams, without giving me dreams, of the beautiful Annabel Lee, And the stars never rise, but I feel the bright eyes, of the beautiful Annabel Lee
For the moon never beams, without giving me dreams, of the beautiful Annabel Lee, And the stars never rise, but I feel the bright eyes, of the beautiful Annabel Lee
The death of a beautiful woman, is unquestionably the most poetical topic in the world.
Beauty of whatever kind, in its supreme development, invariably excites the sensitive soul to tears.
For the moon never beams without bringing me dreams
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
And the stars never rise but I see 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 side of the sea.
That pleasure which is at once the most pure, the most elevating and the most intense, is derived, I maintain, from the contemplation of the beautiful.
And so it lies happily,
Bathing in many
A dream of the truth
And the beauty of Annie-
Drowned in a bath
Of the tresses of Annie.
Poetry is the rhythmical creation of beauty in words.
I would define, in brief, the poetry of words as the rhythmical creation of Beauty.
Of what in other worlds shall be - and given
In beauty by our God, to those alone
Who otherwise would fall from life and Heaven
Drawn by their heart's passion, and that tone,
That high tone of the spirit which hath striven
Though not with Faith - with godliness - whose throne
With desperate energy 't hath beaten down;
Wearing its own deep feeling as a crown.
To Helen Helen, thy beauty is to me Like those Nicean barks of yore That gently, o'er a perfumed sea, The weary, way-worn wanderer bore To his own native shore. On desperate seas long wont to roam, Thy hyacinth hair, thy classic face, Thy Naiad airs have brought me home To the glory that was Greece, And the grandeur that was Rome. Lo, in yon brilliant window-niche How statue-like I see thee stand, The agate lamp within thy hand, Ah Psyche, from the regions which Are Holy Land.
© 2020 Inspirational Stories
© 2020 Inspirational Stories