The Bells by Edgar Allan Poe Hear the sledges with the bells, silver bells, what a world of merriment their melody for tales, how they tinkle, tinkle, tinkle in the icy air of night, while the stars that over sprinkle over heaven seem to twinkle with the crystal line delight, keeping time, time, time in a sort of runic ride, to the tint in abulation that so musically wells, from the bells, bells, bells, bells, bells, bells, bells, bells, from the jingling and the tinkling of the bells, hear the mellow wedding bells, golden bells, what a world of happiness their harmony for tales, through the balmy air of night, how they ring out their delight, on the molten golden note and all in tune what a liquid ditty float, to the turtle dove that listens while she glows on the moon, over and out the sounding cells, what a gush of euthony volumelessly wells, how it swells, how it dwells, on the future how it tells of the rapture that impels, to the swinging and the ringing of the bells, bells, bells, bells, bells, bells, bells, bells, bells, bells, bells, bells, to the rhyming and the chiming of the bells, hear the loud alarm bells, brazen bells, what tale of terror now their turbulencely tells, in the startled ear of night, how they scream out their affright, to much horrified to speak they can only shriek shriek out of tune, in a climberous appealing to the mercy of the fire, in a mad exposculation with the death and frantic fire, leaping higher, higher, higher, with a desperate desire, and a resolute endeavour now to sit or never, by the side of the pale faced moon, over bells, bells, bells, what a tale their terror tells of despair, how they clang and clash and roar, or to horror they outpull, on the bosom of the palpitating air, yet the ear it fully knows by the twanging and the clanging, how the danger ebbs and flows, yet the ear distinctly tells in the jangling and the wrangling, how the danger sinks and swells, by the sinking or the swelling in the anger of the bells, of the bells, of the bells, bells, bells, bells, bells, bells, bells, in the clamour and the clanger of the bells, hear the tolling of the bells, iron bells, or to world of solemn thought their monody compels, in the silence of the night how we shiver with a fright, as the melancholy menace of their tone, for every sound that floats from the rust in their throats is a groan, and the people are for people, but they dwell up in the steeple all alone, and who tolling, tolling, tolling, in that muffled monotone, feel a glory and so rolling on the human heart a stone, they are neither man nor woman, they are neither brute nor human, they are ghouls, and the king it is who tolls, and he rolls, rolls, rolls, a peons from the bells, and his merry bosom swells with the peons of the bells, and he dances and he yells keeping time, time, time in a sort of thereafter she tithes, athrobbing of the bells, to wrench them down with love, and trouble, and achieve brind of jealousy, as always he blestetly hones and it is suddenly of the bells of the bells, bells, bells, to the tolling of the bells of the bells, bells, bells, bells to the moaning and the groaning of the bells.