The Bells by Edgar Allan Poe

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One of my favorite memories of scaring
myself as a child was getting a compilation

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book of Edgar Allan Poe stories from
my elementary school library. It brought me

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so much fear and so much excitement. I remember running home from school with

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that book in my backpack as the
sky was dark and a storm was coming.

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I was in my childhood living room, but I wasn't alone. I

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had a pizza and the books of
Poe. Every so often I'll bring you

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a tale of Poe, and I
hope it gives you that scary fun sense,

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just the same as it does for
me. When the clock strikes midnight,

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the story will begin. The Bells
by Edgar Allan Poe. Here the

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sledges with the bells, silver bells, What a world of merriment. Their

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melody foretells how they tinkle, tinkle, tinkle in the icy air of night,

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while the stars that over sprinkle all
the heavens seem to twinkle with a

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crystalline delight, keeping time time,
time in a sort of runic rhyme to

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the tintinabulation that so musically wells from
the bells. Bells, bells, bells,

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bells, bells, bells, from
the jingling and the twinkling of the

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bells, hear the mellow wedding bells, golden bells. What a world of

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happiness their harmony foretells through the balmy
air of night, How they ring out

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their delight from the molten golden notes
and all in tune. What a liquid

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ditty floats to the turtle dove that
listens while she gloats on the moon.

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Oh, from out the sounding cells, What a gush of euphony voluminously wells,

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How it swells, how it dwells
the future, How it tells of

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the rapture that impels to the swinging
and the ringing of the bells, bells,

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bells of the bells, bells,
bells, bells, bells, bells,

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bells, to the rhyming and the
chiming of the bells, hear the

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loud alarium bells, brazen bells.
What a tale of terror? Now their

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turbulency tells in the startled ear of
night, how they scream out their affright.

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Too much horrified to speak, they
can only shriek, shriek out of

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tune in a clamorous appealing to the
mercy of the fire, in a mad

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expostulation with the deaf and frantic fire, leaping higher, higher, higher,

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with a desperate desire and a resolute
endeavor. Now now to sit or never

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by the side of the pale faced
moon. Oh, the bells, bells,

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bells, What a tale their terror
tells of despair, How they clang,

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in clash and roar. What a
horror they outpour on the bosom of

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the palpitating air. Yet the ear
it fully knows, by the twanging and

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the clanging, how the danger ebbs
and flows. Yet, yes, the

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ear distinctly tells in the jangling and
the wrangling, how the danger sinks and

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swells, by the sinking and the
swelling in the anger of the bells,

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of the bells, of the bells, bells, bells, bells, bells,

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bells, bells. In the clamor
and the clanger of the bells,

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hear the tolling of the bells,
iron bells. What a world of solemn

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thought their monody compels in the silence
of the night. How we shiver with

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affright at the melancholy menace of their
tone. For every sound that floats from

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the rust within their throats is a
groan, And the people ah the people,

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They that dwell up in the steeple, all alone, and who tolling,

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tolling, tolling in that muffled monotone
feel a glory in so rolling on

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the human heart a stone. They
are neither man nor woman. They are

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neither brute nor human. They are
ghouls. And their king it is who

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tolls, and he rolls, rolls, rolls, rolls, rolls a paeon

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from the bells, and his merry
bosom swells with the paeon of the bells,

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and he dances, and he yells, keeping time time time in a

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sort of runic rhyme, to the
peon of the bells of the bells,

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keeping time time time, in a
sort of runic rhyme, to the throbbing

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of the bells of the bells,
bells, bells, to the sobbing of

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the bells, keeping time time time, as he knells, knells, knells

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in a happy runic rhyme, to
the rolling of the bells of the bells,

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bells, bells, to the tolling
of the bells of the bells,

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bells, bells, bells, bells, bells, bells, to the moaning

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and the groaning of the bells,