The Bells and Other Poems. Edgar Allan Poe

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      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 if Runic rhyme,

      To the tintinabulation 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 endeavour.

      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 clamour and the clangour 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 affright

      At the melancholy menace of their tone!

      For every sound that floats

      From 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 rolling

      On 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,

      Rolls

      A paean from the bells!

      And his merry bosom swells

      With the paean of the bells!

      And he dances, and he yells;

      Keeping time, time, time,

      In a sort of Runic rhyme,

      To the paean 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.

      I dwelt alone

      In a world of moan,

      And my soul was a stagnant tide,

      Till the fair and gentle Eulalie became my blushing bride —

      Till the yellow-haired young Eulalie became my smiling bride.

      Ah, less – less bright

      The stars of the night

      Than the eyes of the radiant girl!

      And never a flake

      That the vapour can make

      With the moon-tints of purple and pearl,

      Can vie with the modest Eulalie's most unregarded curl —

      Can compare with the bright-eyed Eulalie’s most humble and careless curl.

      Now doubt – now Pain

      Come never again,

      For her soul gives me sigh for sigh,

      And all day long

      Shines, СКАЧАТЬ