When all around the wind doth blow,
And coughing drowns the parson's saw,
And birds sit brooding in the snow,

And Marian's nose looks red and raw,
When roasted crabs hiss in the bowl,
Then nightly sings the staring owl
Tuwhoo!

Tuwhit! tuwhoo! A merry note !

While greasy Joan doth keel the pot.

W. SHAKESPEARE

ANNABEL LEE

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 than 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 high-born kinsmen 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.

VIRGINI

But our love it was stronger by far than the love
Of those who were older than we-

Of many far wiser than we;

And neither the angels in heaven above,
Nor the demons down under the sea
Can ever dissever my soul from the soul
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee.

OF

GENERAL

17

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 sounding sea.

TO MARY

IF I had thought thou couldst have died,
I might not weep for thee;

But I forgot, when by thy side,

That thou couldst mortal be:
It never through my mind had past
The time would e'er be o'er,
And I on thee should look my last,
And thou shouldst smile no more!

And still upon that face I look,

And think 'twill smile again;

And still the thought I will not brook
That I must look in vain!
But when I speak-thou dost not say,
What thou ne'er left'st unsaid;
And now I feel, as well I may,
Sweet Mary! thou art dead.

If thou wouldst stay, e'en as thou art,
All cold and all serene-

I still might press thy silent heart,

And where thy smiles have been !
While e'en thy chill, bleak corse I have,
Thou seemest still mine own;

But there I lay thee in thy grave—
And I am now alone!

E. A. POE.