lydiachan

General

Ah, broken is the golden bowl! The spirit flown forever! Let the bell toll! — A saintly soul Glides down the Stygian river! And let the burial rite be read — The funeral song be sung — A dirge for the most lovely dead That ever died so young! And, Guy De Vere, Hast thou no tear? Weep now or nevermore! See, on yon drear And rigid bier, Low lies thy love Lenore! “Yon heir, whose cheeks of pallid hue With tears are streaming wet, Sees only, through Their crocodile dew, A vacant coronet — False friends! ye loved her for her wealth And hated her for her pride, And, when she fell in feeble health, Ye blessed her — that she died. How shall the ritual, then, be read? The requiem how be sung For her most wrong’d of all the dead That ever died so young?” Peccavimus! But rave not thus! And let the solemn song Go up to God so mournfully that she may feel no wrong! The sweet Lenore Hath “gone before” With young hope at her side, And thou art wild For the dear child That should have been thy bride — For her, the fair And debonair, That now so lowly lies — The life still there Upon her hair, The death upon her eyes.  “Avaunt! — to-night My heart is light — No dirge will I upraise, But waft the angel on her flight With a Pæan of old days! Let no bell toll! Lest her sweet soul, Amid its hallow’d mirth, Should catch the note As it doth float Up from the damned earth — To friends above, from fiends below, th’ indignant ghost is riven — From grief and moan To a gold throne Beside the King of Heaven!”

Music

Movies

MONTY PYTHON AND THE HOLY GRAIL MONTY PYTHON'S LIFE OF BRIAN PENGUINS OF MADAGASCAR THIRTEEN THE CRAFT FERRIS BUELLERS DAY OFF

Television

Books

Heroes

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TikTok

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Spotify

Spotify