The best chess-player in Christendom may be little more than the best player of chess; but proficiency in whist implies capacity for success in all those more important undertakings where mind struggles with mind.
edgar-allan-poe horror
I have before suggested that a genuine blackguard is never without a pocket-handkerchief.
mystery edgar-allan-poe short-story
I saw thee once - only once - years ago: I must not say how many - but not many. It was a July midnight; and from outA full-orbed moon, that, like thine own soul, soaring, Sought a precipitate pathway up through heaven, There fell a silvery-silken veil of light, With quietude, and sultriness, and slumber, Upon the upturn'd faces of a thousandRoses that grew in an enchanted garden, Where no wind dared stir, unless on tiptoe -Fell on the upturn'd faces of these rosesThat gave out, in return for the love-light, Their odorous souls in an ecstatic death -Fell on the upturn'd faces of these rosesThat smiled and died in the parterre, enchantedBy thee, and by the poetry of thy presence. Clad all in white, upon a violet bankI saw thee half reclining; while the moonFell upon the upturn'd faces of the roses, And on thine own, upturn'd - alas, in sorrow!Was it not Fate, that, on this July midnight -Was it not Fate, (whose name is also Sorrow,)That bade me pause before that garden-gate, To breathe the incense of those slumbering roses?No footsteps stirred: the hated world all slept, Save only thee and me. (Oh, Heaven! - oh, G**!How my heart beats in coupling those two words!)Save only thee and me. I paused - I looked -And in an instant all things disappeared.(Ah, bear in mind the garden was enchanted!)The pearly lustre of the moon went out: The mossy banks and the meandering paths, The happy flowers and the repining trees, Were seen no more: the very roses' odorsDied in the arms of the adoring airs. All - all expired save thee - save less than thou: Save only divine light in thine eyes -Save but the soul in thine uplifted eyes.I saw but them - they were the world to me.I saw but them - saw only them for hours -Saw only them until the moon went down. What wild heart-histories seemed to lie enwrittenUpon those crystalline, celestial spheres!How dark a wo! Yet how sublime a hope!How silently serene a sea of pride!How daring an ambition! Yet how deep -How fathomless a capacity for love!But now, at length, dear Dian sank from sight, Into a western couch of thunder-cloud; And thou, a ghost, amid the entombing treesDidst glide away. Only thine eyes remained. They would not go - they never yet have gone. Lighting my lonely pathway home that night, They have not left me (as my hopes have) since. They follow me - they lead me through the years. They are my ministers - yet I their slave. Their office is to illumine and enkindle -My duty, to be saved by their bright fire, And purified in their electric fire, And sanctified in their elysian fire. They fill my soul with Beauty (which is Hope,)And are far up in Heaven - the stars I kneel toIn the sad, silent watches of my night; While even in the meridian glare of dayI see them still - two sweetly scintillantVenuses, unextinguished by the sun!
poetry edgar-allan-poe helen
To HelenI saw thee once-once only-years ago; I must not say how many-but not many. It was a july midnight; and from outA full-orbed moon, that, like thine own soul, soaring, Sought a precipitate pathway up through heaven, There fell a silvery-silken veil of light, With quietude, and sultriness, and slumberUpon the upturn'd faces of a thousandRoses that grew in an enchanted garden, Where no wind dared to stir, unless on tiptoe-Fell on the upturn'd faces of these rosesThat gave out, in return for the love-lightThier odorous souls in an ecstatic death-Fell on the upturn'd faces of these rosesThat smiled and died in this parterre, enchanted by thee, by the poetry of thy prescence. Clad all in white, upon a violet bank I saw thee half reclining; while the moonFell on the upturn'd faces of the rosesAnd on thine own, upturn'd-alas, in sorrow!Was it not Fate that, on this july midnight-Was it not Fate (whose name is also sorrow)That bade me pause before that garden-gate, To breathe the incense of those slumbering roses?No footstep stirred; the hated world all slept, Save only thee and me. (Oh Heaven- oh, God! How my heart beats in coupling those two worlds!)Save only thee and me. I paused- I looked-And in an instant all things disappeared.(Ah, bear in mind this garden was enchanted!)The pearly lustre of the moon went out; The mossy banks and the meandering paths, The happy flowers and the repining trees, Were seen no more: the very roses' odorsDied in the arms of the adoring airs. All- all expired save thee- save less than thou: Save only the divine light in thine eyes-Save but the soul in thine uplifted eyes.I saw but them- they were the world to me.I saw but them- saw only them for hours-Saw only them until the moon went down. What wild heart-histories seemed to lie enwrittenUpon those crystalline, celestial spheres!How dark a woe! Yet how sublime a hope!How silently serene a sea of pride!How daring an ambition!yet how deep-How fathomless a capacity for love!But now, at length, dear Dian sank from sight, Into western couch of thunder-cloud; And thou, a ghost, amid the entombing treesDidst glide away. Only thine eyes remained. They would not go- they never yet have gone. Lighting my lonely pathway home that night, They have not left me (as my hopes have) since. They follow me- they lead me through the years. They are my ministers- yet I thier slaveThier office is to illumine and enkindle-My duty, to be saved by thier bright light, And purified in thier electric fire, And sanctified in thier Elysian fire. They fill my soul with Beauty (which is Hope), And are far up in heaven- the stars I kneel toIn the sad, silent watches of my night; While even in the meridian glare of dayI see them still- two sweetly scintillantVenuses, unextinguished by the sun!
poetry romance edgar-allan-poe
I have been happy, though in a dream.I have been happy-and I love the theme: Dreams! In their vivid colouring of lifeAs in that fleeting, shadowy, misty strife
poetry dreams edgar-allan-poe
I have not always been as now: The fever'd diadem on my brow I claim'd and won unsurprisingly-Hath not the same fierce heirdom given Rome to the Caeser-this is me? The heritage of a kindly mind, And a proud spirit which hath striven Triumphantly with human kind.
poetry edgar-allan-poe
I was cautious in what I said before the young lady; for I could not be sure that she was sane; and, in fact, there was a certain restless brilliancy about her eyes that half led me to imagine she was not.
insanity sanity edgar-allan-poe short-story
Men have called me mad; but the question is not yet settled, whether madness is or is not the loftiest intelligence.
intelligence madness edgar-allan-poe
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