"BUT though you are equally as beautiful as Poe's Annabel Lee," I said to my friend Annabel Lee—"and half the time I think you are the same one—still when I read over the poem in my mind I find differences."
"You find differences," said my friend Annabel Lee.
I repeated:
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 fancy I do," said my friend Annabel Lee.
I repeated:
In this kingdom by the sea;
And we loved with a love that was more than love,
I and my Annabel Lee—
A love that the wingèd seraphs in heaven
Coveted her and me.'
The first line might stand," said I, "for you are only fourteen, and I but one-and-twenty—which is quite young youth when compared to the age of the earth. But the third and fourth lines are appalling. And, alas, you are not my Annabel Lee. Always you make me feel, indeed, that nothing is mine. And no, surely the winged seraphs in heaven do not envy you and me for anything."
"If they do," said my friend Annabel Lee, "then heaven must needs be very poorly furnished."
I repeated:
In this kingdom by the sea,
A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling
My beautiful Annabel Lee,
So that her high-born kinsman came
And bore her away from me,
To shut her up in a sepulcher
In this kingdom by the sea.'
I imagine, times," said I, "that a chill wind has sometime come out of a cloud by night and gone over you. No high-born kinsman comes to carry you away—but I shiver at the possibility. Will a high-born kinsman come to carry you away—shall you be shut into a gray stone sepulcher?"
"No kinsman, high- or low-born, is coming to carry me away," said my friend Annabel Lee. "Kinsmen do not carry away things that have no intrinsic value."
"No, I believe they don't," said I, and felt relieved.
I repeated:
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.'
But no," said I; "the angels in heaven are surely more than half so happy as you and I."
"More than half," said my friend Annabel Lee. "They need not send clouds from heaven on that account."
I repeated:
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.'
If you loved anything," said I, "'twould be stronger by far than that of some who are older, and of very many who may be wiser."
"I don't think wisdom and age have to do with it," said my friend Annabel Lee.
"And the angels in heaven would count for very little in it," said I.
"No, certainly not the angels in heaven," said my friend Annabel Lee.
"Nor the demons down under the sea?" I asked.
"I don't know about them," said my friend Annabel Lee.
I repeated:
Of the beatiful Annabel Lee;
And the stars never rise, but I feel the bright eyes
Of the beautiul 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 sepulcher there by the sea,
In her tomb by the sounding sea.'
The first lines," said I, "are well-fitting. For you are like to the moon and stars, and they are like to you. You are with them in the shadow-way. And if you were out by the sea in a gray stone sepulcher I should stay there near you, in the night-tide and the day-tide. You would be there—and my heart would set in your direction still."
"More than it had set before," said my friend Annabel Lee. "For everything escheats to the sea at last. Those persons," said my friend Annabel Lee, "who have measures of sorrow which can be joined with the sea are the most fortunate persons of all. Those measures of sorrow will serve them well and will stand them in good stead on days when all other things desert them. If a measure of sorrow is joined with the sea it belongs to the sea—and the sea is always there.
"The sea," said my friend Annabel Lee, "is like a letter from some one whom you have written to after a long silence, who you thought might be dead.
"The sea is the measure of sorrow, and the measure of sorrow is the sea. Having once had a measure of sorrow joined with the sea, your measure of sorrow will never be separated from the sea.
"The measure of sorrow will sink all of its woe deep into the sea, and the sea will be of the same color with it. For a measure of sorrow is sufficient to color a great sea.
"The sea will give to the measure of sorrow a bit of wild joy. There is no joy in the world like that of the sea—for there is enough in it to come out and touch all things in life, and life itself. And the wild joy will stop short only of a scene of death. If a life is joined with the sea, in spite of all the weariness, all the anguish, all the heavy-days of unrest, and all the futile struggling and wasting of nerves, there will yet be a wild joy in it all, and thrill after thrill of triumph in extreme moments.
"Those measures of sorrow that are not joined with the sea must do for themselves.
"And for these reasons, those persons who have measures of sorrow that can be joined with the sea are the most fortunate persons of all."