Edgar Poe - Steampunk Poe

Take this kiss upon the brow! And, in parting 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 hand 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 wave? Is all that we see or seem But a dream within a dream?

LO! t’is a gala night Within the lonesome latter years!An angel throng, bewinged, bedight In veils, and drowned in tears,Sit in a theatre, to see A play of hopes and fears,While the orchestra breathes fitfully The music of the spheres.Mimes, in the form of God on high, Mutter and mumble low,And hither and thither fly— Mere puppets they, who come and goAt bidding of vast formless things That shift the scenery to and fro,Flapping from out their Condor wings Invisible Woe!That motley drama—oh, be sure It shall not be forgot!With its Phantom chased for evermore, By a crowd that seize it not,Through a circle that ever returneth in To the self-same spot,And much of Madness, and more of Sin, And Horror the soul of the plot.But see, amid the mimic rout A crawling shape intrude!A blood-red thing that writhes from out The scenic solitude!It writhes!—it writhes!—with mortal pangs The mimes become its food,And the angels sob at vermin fangs In human gore imbued.Out—out are the lights—out all! And, over each quivering form,The curtain, a funeral pall, Comes down with the rush of a storm,And the angels, all pallid and wan, Uprising, unveiling, affirmThat the play is the tragedy “Man,” And its hero the Conqueror Worm.

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 oversprinkleAll the heavens seem to twinkle With a crystalline delight;Keeping time, time, time,In a sort of Runic rhyme,To the tintinabulation that so musically wellsFrom 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 nightHow they ring out their delight! From the molten-golden notes,And all in tune,What a liquid ditty floatsTo the turtle-dove that listens, while she gloatsOn the moon!Oh, from out the sounding cellsWhat a gush of euphony voluminously wells!How it swells!How it dwellsOn the Future! how it tellsOf the rapture that impelsTo the swinging and the ringingOf 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 nightHow 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 endeavorNow—now to sit, or never,By the side of the pale-faced moonOh, the bells, bells, bells!What a tale their terror tells Of despair!How they clang, and clash, and roar!What a horror they outpourOn 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 clamour and the clangor of the bells!

Hear the tolling of the bells— Iron bells!What a world of solemn thought their monody compels!In the silence of the night,How we shiver with affrightAt the melancholy meaning of their tone!For every sound that floatsFrom the rust within their throats Is a groan.And the people—ah, the people—They that dwell up in the steeple,All alone,And who tolling, tolling, tolling,In that muffled monotone,Feel a glory in so rollingOn the human heart a stone—They are neither man nor woman—They are neither brute nor human—They are Ghouls:And their king it is who tolls;And he rolls, rolls, rolls,RollsA pæan from the bells!And his merry bosom swellsWith the pæan of the bells!And he dances, and he yells;Keeping time, time, time,In a sort of Runic rhyme,To the pæan of the bells— Of the bells:Keeping time, time, time,In a sort of Runic rhyme,To the throbbing of the bells—Of the bells, bells, bells—To the sobbing of the bells;Keeping time, time, time,As he knells, knells, knells,In a happy Runic rhyme,To the rolling of the bells—Of the bells, bells, bells—To the tolling of the bells,Of the bells, bells, bells, bells—Bells, bells, bells—To the moaning and the groaning of the bells.