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And hither and thither fly—
Mere puppets they, who come and go
At bidding of vast formless things
That shift the scenery to and fro,
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,
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
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,
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 winged seraphs of heaven
Coveted her and me.
And this was the reason that, long ago,
A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling
So that her high-born kinsman came
To shut her up in a sepulchre
In this kingdom by the sea.
The angels, not half so happy in heaven,
That the wind came out of the cloud by night,