Poe

TRUE! nervous, very, very dreadfully nervous I had been and am; but why WILL bạn say that I am mad? The disease had sharpened my senses, not destroyed, not dulled them. Above all was the sense of hearing acute. I heard all things in the heaven and in the earth. I heard many things in hell. How then am I mad? Hearken! and observe how healthily, how calmly, I can tell bạn the whole story.

It is impossible to say how first the idea entered my brain, but, once conceived, it haunted me ngày and night. Object there was none. Passion there was none. I loved the old man. He had never wronged me. He...

The stories they have đã đưa ý kiến were true
There was once a young girl like me and you
That loved to read Edgar Allen Poe
How her tim, trái tim felt đọc his tales of woe

She lived in the 1800's
Rebellious, young and dark
She wanted to be a young Joan of Arc
As she ran away to see Poe

Virginia to Boston, a long long rode
As her parents were waiting for her at her humble abode
Then, she felt disbelief when she heard
The madness of Edgar Allen Poe

People disapproved of him
Trying to ruin her long strange trip
But she still goes on saying
She longs to hear his tales of murder, tình yêu and woe

One ngày she stumbled to a home...

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.

Tottering above
In her highest noon,
The enamored moon
Blushes with love,
While, to listen, the red levin
(With the rapid Pleiads, even,
Which were seven,)
Pauses in Heaven.

And they say (the starry choir
And the other listening things)
That Israfeli's fire
Is owing to that lyre
bởi which he sits and sings-
The trembling living wire
Of those unusual strings.

But the skies that angel...

PART I

O! nothing earthly save the ray
(Thrown back from flowers) of Beauty's eye,
As in those gardens where the day
Springs from the gems of Circassy-
O! nothing earthly save the thrill
Of melody in woodland rill-
Or (music of the passion-hearted)
Joy's voice so peacefully departed
That like the murmur in the shell,
Its echo dwelleth and will dwell-
Oh, nothing of the dross of ours-
Yet all the beauty- all the flowers
That danh sách our Love, and deck our bowers-
Adorn yon world afar, afar-
The wandering star.

'Twas a sweet time for Nesace- for there
Her world lay lolling on the golden air,
Near four bright suns-...