Edgar Allan Poe - The Complete Poetry

This wonderful plan, without danger or loss,

Keeps your cash in your hands, where nothing can trouble it;

And every time that you fold it across,

'Tis as plain as the light of the day that you double it!

-The End-

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Do tell when shall we make common sense men out of the owl-eyed pundits

Out of The Frog-faced stupid old God-born Pundits who lost in a fog-bank

Strut about all along shore there somewhere close by the Down East

Frog Duck Pond munching of pea nuts and pumpkins and buried in big-wigs

Why ask who ever yet saw money made out of a fat old

Jew or downright upright nutmegs out of a pine-knot

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The dying swan by northern lakes

Sings its wild death song, sweet and clear,

And as the solemn music breaks

O'er hill and glen dissolves in air ;

Thus musical thy soft voice came,

Thus trembled on thy tongue my name.

Like sunburst through the ebon cloud,

Which veils the solemn midnight sky,

Piercing cold evening's sable shroud,

Thus came the first glance of that eye ;

But like the adamantine rock,

My spirit met and braved the shock.

Let memory the boy recall

Who laid his heart upon thy shrine,

When far away his footsteps fall,

Think that he deem'd thy charms divine ;

A victim on love's alter slain,

By witching eyes which looked disdain.

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When from your gems of thought I turn

To those pure orbs, your heart to learn,

I scarce know which to prize most high —

The bright i-dea, or the bright dear-eye.

-The End-

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Fill with mingled cream and amber

I will drain that glass again.

Such hilarious visions clamber

Through the chamber of my brain -

Quaintest thoughts - queerest fancies

Come to life and fade away;

What care I how time advances?

I am drinking ale today.

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O, Times! O, Manners! It is my opinion

That you are changing sadly your dominion —

I mean the reign of manners hath long ceased,

For men have none at all, or bad at least;

And as for times, altho' 'tis said by many

The "good old times" were far the worst of any,

Of which sound doctrine l believe each tittle,

Yet still I think these worse than them a little.

I've been a thinking — isn't that the phrase? —

I like your Yankee words and Yankee ways —

I've been a thinking, whether it were best

To take things seriously, or all in jest;

Whether, with grim Heraclitus of yore,

To weep, as he did, till his eyes were sore,

Or rather laugh with him, that queer philosopher,

Democritus of Thrace, who used to toss over

The page of life and grin at the dog-ears,

As though he'd say, "Why, who the devil cares?"

This is a question which, oh heaven, withdraw

The luckless query from a member's claw!

Instead of two sides, Job [Bob] has nearly eight,

Each fit to furnish forth four hours debate.

What shall be done? I'll lay it on the table,

And take the matter up when I'm more able,

And, in the meantime, to prevent all bother,

I'll neither laugh with one, nor cry with t'other,

Nor deal in flatt'ry or aspersions foul,

But, taking one by each hand, merely growl.

Ah, growl, say you, my friend, and pray at what?

Why, really, sir, I almost had forgot —

But, damn it, sir, I deem it a disgrace

That things should stare us boldly in the face,

And daily strut the street with bows and scrapes,

Who would be men by imitating apes.

I beg your pardon, reader, for the oath

The monkeys make me swear, though something loth;

I'm apt to be discursive in my style,

But pray be patient; yet a little while

Will change me, and as politicians do,

I'll mend my manners and my measures too.

Of all the cities — and I've seen no few;

For I have travelled, friend, as well as you —

I don't remember one, upon my soul,

But take it generally upon the whole,

(As members say they like their logick [logic] taken,

Because divided, it may chance be shaken)

So pat, agreeable and vastly proper

As this for a neat, frisky counter-hopper;

Here he may revel to his heart's content,

Flounce like a fish in his own element,

Toss back his fine curls from their forehead fair,

And hop o'er counters with a Vester's air,

Complete at night what he began A.M.,

And having cheated ladies, dance with them;

For, at a ball, what fair one can escape

The pretty little hand that sold her tape,

Or who so cold, so callous to refuse

The youth who cut the ribbon for her shoes!

One of these fish, par excellence the beau —

God help me! — it has been my lot to know,

At least by sight, for I'm a timid man,

And always keep from laughing, if I can;

But speak to him, he'll make you such grimace,

Lord! to be grave exceeds the power of face.

The hearts of all the ladies are with him,

Their bright eyes on his Tom and Jerry brim

And dove-tailed coat, obtained at cost; while then

Those eyes won't turn on anything like men.

His very voice is musical delight,

His form, once seen, becomes a part of sight;

In short, his shirt collar, his look, his tone is

The "beau ideal" fancied for Adonis.

Philosophers have often held dispute

As to the seat of thought in man and brute;

For that the power of thought attends the latter

My friend, the beau, hath made a settled matter,

And spite of all dogmas, current in all ages,

One settled fact is better than ten sages.

For he does think, though I am oft in doubt

If I can tell exactly what about.

Ah, yes! his little foot and ankle trim,

'Tis there the seat of reason lies in him,

A wise philosopher would shake his head,

He then, of course, must shake his foot instead.

At me, in vengeance, shall that foot be shaken —

Another proof of thought, I'm not mistaken —

Because to his cat's eyes I hold a glass,

And let him see himself, a proper ass!

I think he'll take this likeness to himself,

But if he won't, he shall, a stupid elf,

And, lest the guessing throw the fool in fits,

I close the portrait with the name of PITTS.

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Last night, with many cares and toils oppress'd

Weary, I laid me on a couch to rest —

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So sweet the hour, so calm the time,

I feel it more than half a crime,

When Nature sleeps and stars are mute,

To mar the silence ev'n with lute.

At rest on ocean's brilliant dyes

An image of Elysium lies:

Seven Pleiades entranced in Heaven,

Form in the deep another seven:

Endymion nodding from above

Sees in the sea a second love.

Within the valleys dim and brown,

And on the spectral mountain's crown,

The wearied light is dying down,

And earth, and stars, and sea, and sky

Are redolent of sleep, as I

Am redolent of thee and thine

Enthralling love, my Adeline.

But list, O list,- so soft and low

Thy lover's voice tonight shall flow,

That, scarce awake, thy soul shall deem

My words the music of a dream.

Thus, while no single sound too rude

Upon thy slumber shall intrude,