Michael Connelly - In The Shadow Of The Master - Classic Tales by Edgar Allan Poe

“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 Pallas just above my chamber door;
And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon’s that is dreaming,
And the lamp-light o’er him streaming throws his shadows on the floor;
And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor
Shall be lifted-nevermore!

Once upon a twilight teary, while I mourned so blitzed and bleary,
O’er my script which got demolished by a showbiz bloody bore,
Suddenly there came a dinging-“You’ve got mail!”-an e-mail singing,
Much annoyed with ears a-ringing, I decided to ignore,
And swilled another mug of suds, permeating every pore.
“’Tis only spam,” I muttered then. This and nothing more.

Presently with breath a-reeking, I chose to do some e-mail peeking,
Which rained on me a host of doubts that pierced me to the core.
For Michael wanted “ruminations,” and that filled me with trepidation,
He wished for thoughts about a scribe from golden days of yore.
A testimonial to this titan? But I had demons I was fightin’.
At least two hundred words, he urged. This and nothing more.

Now I felt my stomach burning, the hops and malts inside me churning,
As I remembered childhood learning, and volumes I’d explored.
Then my guilt it overtook me, Mike’s insistent plea, it shook me,
The e-mail I should have deleted could now not be ignored.
I thought somehow I must comply, for Poe who’s on a throne so high,
Deserves much thanks from such as I, and others gone before.

Thus I set off plodding, spurred by Michael’s “gentle prodding,”
Hoping I could yet discover sentiments that soar.
I imagined many noble words, and thought I glimpsed a great black bird,
Whose unforgiving glower drove me to an icy shower,
To find within the power and draw temperance to the fore.
Alas, the water only froze me and made my bald spot sore.

This I say to Michael C., I ask that you envision me,
A forlorn wretch no longer musing, in his cups from all the boozing,
Who shall soon be mute and snoozing upon the study floor.
Before that swoon I swear to you, I’ll quaff another brew or two,
In honor of courageous Poe, who threw open every door.
But I won’t open “gentle” e-mails. Not now, and NEVERMORE!

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.

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!

Hear the loud alarum bells-
Brazen bells!
What a 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 clamor and the clangor of the bells!