The life of Edgar Allan Poe (Google eBook)

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T. Y. Crowell, 1903 - 455 pages
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Page 358 - But our love it was stronger by far than the love Of those who were older than we — Of many far wiser than we — And neither the angels in heaven above, Nor the demons down under the sea, Can ever dissever my soul from the soul Of the beautiful ANNABEL LEE...
Page 216 - And I had done a hellish thing. And it would work 'em woe: For all averred. I had killed the bird That made the breeze to blow.
Page 218 - Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken, "Doubtless," said I, "what it utters is its only stock and store, Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful disaster Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore: Till the dirges of his hope that melancholy burden bore Of 'Never— nevermore.
Page 358 - I was a child and she was a child, In this kingdom by the sea, But we loved with a love that was more than love I and my Annabel Lee; With a love that the winged seraphs of heaven Coveted her and me.
Page 381 - And travellers, now, within that valley, Through the red-litten windows see Vast forms that move fantastically To a discordant melody; While, like a ghastly rapid river, Through the pale door A hideous throng rush out forever, And laugh — but smile no more.
Page 358 - For the moon never beams without bringing me dreams Of the beautiful Annabel Lee; And the stars never rise but I feel the bright eyes Of the beautiful Annabel Lee : And so , all the night-tide , I lie down by the side Of my darling — my darling — my life and my bride, In her sepulchre there by the sea — In her tomb by the sounding sea.
Page 384 - Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary, Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore, While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping, As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door. " 'Tis some visitor," I muttered, "tapping at my chamber door — Only this and nothing more.
Page 382 - Leaving thee wild for the dear child that should have been thy bride — For her the fair and debonair that now so lowly lies, The life upon her yellow hair but not within her eyes — The life still there, upon her hair — the death upon her eyes.
Page 131 - Men have called me mad; but the question is not yet settled, whether madness is or is not the loftiest intelligence — whether much that is glorious — whether all that is profound — does not spring from disease of thought — from moods of mind exalted at the expense of the general intellect.
Page 186 - The Murders in the Rue Morgue," and "The Man that was Used Up,

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