Quick, for I can not see you, mother,
My breath is almost gone.
Mother, dear mother, ere I die,
Give me three grains of corn!'
My breath is almost gone.
Mother, dear mother, ere I die,
Give me three grains of corn!'
"What do you think," said my friend Annabel Lee, "is it not full of power and poetry and pathos?"
"Yes, it could not in itself be better," I replied. "And it has the simplicity."
"And pretends nothing," said Annabel Lee.
"And who wrote it?" I asked.
"Oh, some forgotten Englishwoman," said Annabel Lee. "I believe her name was Edwards. She perhaps wrote a poem, now and then, and died."
"And are the poems forgotten, also?" I inquired.
"Yes, forgotten, except by a few. But when they remember them, they remember them long."
