New York Tribune/1849/Death of Edgar Allan Poe

—Unhappy master, Whom unmerciful disaster Followed fast and followed faster, Till his songs the burden bore— Till the dirges of his hope, the Melancholy burden bore Of “Nevermore,” of “Nevermore.”

It was many and many a year ago, In a kingdom by the sea That a maiden there lived who you may know By the name of ; 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 — With a love that the winged 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 ; So that her highborn kinsmen came And bore her away from me, To shut her up in a sepulchre In this kingdom by the sea.

The angles, 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 .

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 angles in heaven above, Nor the demons down under the sea, Can ever dissever my soul from the soul Of the beautiful :

For the moon never beams, without bringing me dreams Of the beautiful ; And the stars never rise, but I feel the bright eyes Of the beautiful : And so, all the night-tide, I like 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.