Poe--man, Poet, and Creative ThinkerBoni and Liveright, 1924 - 485 síður |
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appear atoms attained beauty become beginning believe bells called character combination conceivable conception condition considered continuous course critic dactyl death distance distinct doubt Earth effect effort English equality example exist expression eyes fact fancy feel feet force friends genius give Graham's Magazine hand heart human iambus idea imagination impression least length less literary living look matter means merely mind natural nearly never object observed once original person Poe's poem poet poetical poetry position possible precisely present principle question reader reason reference regard relation respect result rhythm seems seen sense short simple soul speak spirit stars story suggested suppose syllables term thing thought tion true truth unity Universe verse whole write written
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Síða 146 - thing of evil - prophet still, if bird or devil! By that Heaven that bends above us - by that God we both adore Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn, It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore.
Síða 91 - The skies they were ashen and sober; The leaves they were crisped and sere — The leaves they were withering and sere; It was night in the lonesome October Of my most immemorial year: It was hard by the dim lake of Auber, In the misty mid region of Weir: — It was down by the dank tarn of Auber, In the ghoul-haunted woodland of Weir.
Síða 101 - HEAR the sledges with the bells, Silver bells! What a world of merriment their melody foretells! How they tinkle, tinkle, tinkle, In the icy air of night! While the stars that oversprinkle All the heavens seem to twinkle With a crystalline delight...
Síða 100 - IT WAS many and many a year ago, In a kingdom by the sea, That a maiden there lived whom you may know By the name of ANNABEL LEE; And this maiden she lived with no other thought Than to love and be loved by me.
Síða 78 - In the greenest of our valleys By good angels tenanted, Once a fair and stately palace— Radiant palace— reared its head. In the monarch Thought's dominion, It stood there; Never seraph spread a pinion Over fabric half so fair.
Síða 64 - In Heaven a spirit doth dwell "Whose heart-strings are a lute"; None sing so wildly well As the angel Israfel, And the giddy stars (so legends tell), Ceasing their hymns, attend the spell Of his voice, all mute.
Síða 85 - 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.
Síða 79 - But evil things, in robes of sorrow, Assailed the monarch's high estate; (Ah, let us mourn, for never morrow Shall dawn upon him, desolate!) And, round about his home, the glory That blushed and bloomed Is but a dim-remembered story Of the old time entombed.
Síða 65 - Where the Houri glances are Imbued with all the beauty Which we worship in a star. Therefore thou art not wrong, Israfeli, who despisest An unimpassioned song; To thee the laurels belong, Best bard, because the wisest: Merrily live, and long! The ecstasies above With thy burning measures suit: Thy grief, thy joy, thy hate, thy love, With the fervor of thy lute: Well may the stars be mute!
Síða 142 - Regarding, then, Beauty as my province, my next question referred to the tone of its highest manifestation — and all experience has shown that this tone is one of sadness. Beauty of whatever kind, in its supreme development, invariably excites the sensitive soul to tears. Melancholy is thus the most legitimate of all the poetical tones.