The City In the Sea by Edgar Allan Poe

       Lo! Death has reared himself a throne

       In a strange city lying alone

       Far down within the dim West,

       Where the good and the bad and the worst and the best

       Have gone to their eternal rest.

       There shrines and palaces and towers

       (Time-eaten towers that tremble not!)

       Resemble nothing that is ours.

       Around, by lifting winds forgot,

       Resignedly beneath the sky

       The melancholy waters lie.

 

       No rays from the holy heaven come down

       On the long night-time of that town;

       But light from out the lurid sea

       Streams up the turrets silently-

       Gleams up the pinnacles far and free-

       Up domes- up spires- up kingly halls-

       Up fanes- up Babylon-like walls-

       Up shadowy long-forgotten bowers

       Of sculptured ivy and stone flowers-

       Up many and many a marvellous shrine

       Whose wreathed friezes intertwine

       The viol, the violet, and the vine.

       Resignedly beneath the sky

       The melancholy waters lie.

       So blend the turrets and shadows there

       That all seem pendulous in air,

       While from a proud tower in the town

       Death looks gigantically down.

 

       There open fanes and gaping graves

       Yawn level with the luminous waves;

       But not the riches there that lie

       In each idol's diamond eye-

       Not the gaily-jewelled dead

       Tempt the waters from their bed;

       For no ripples curl, alas!

       Along that wilderness of glass-

       No swellings tell that winds may be

       Upon some far-off happier sea-

       No heavings hint that winds have been

       On seas less hideously serene.

 

       But lo, a stir is in the air!

       The wave- there is a movement there!

       As if the towers had thrust aside,

       In slightly sinking, the dull tide-

       As if their tops had feebly given

       A void within the filmy Heaven.

       The waves have now a redder glow-

       The hours are breathing faint and low-

       And when, amid no earthly moans,

       Down, down that town shall settle hence,

       Hell, rising from a thousand thrones,

       Shall do it reverence.