The Complete Poetical Works of Edgar Allan Poe Including Essays on Poetry

By Edgar Allan Poe

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spirit of the western wind"
Oh, beautiful!--most beautiful!--how like
To what my fevered soul doth dream of Heaven!
O happy land! (_pauses_) She died!--the maiden died!
O still more happy maiden who couldst die!

(_Jacinta returns no answer, and Lalage presently resumes_.)

Again!--a similar tale
Told of a beauteous dame beyond the sea!
Thus speaketh one Ferdinand in the words of the play--
"She died full young"--one Bossola answers him--
"I think not so--her infelicity
Seemed to have years too many"--Ah, luckless lady!
Jacinta! (_still no answer_.)
Here's a far sterner story--
But like--oh, very like in its despair--
Of that Egyptian queen, winning so easily
A thousand hearts--losing at length her own.

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Text Comparison with The Complete Poetical Works of Edgar Allan Poe Including Essays on Poetry

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contributing to its columns much of his best work; ultimately, however, he came to loggerheads with its proprietor, Burton, who disposed of the magazine to a Mr.
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That you fancy me dead-- And I rest so contentedly, Now in my bed, (With her love at my breast) That you fancy me dead-- That you shudder to look at me.
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Ah, less--less bright The stars of the night Than the eyes of the radiant girl! And never a flake That the vapor can make With the moon-tints of purple and pearl, Can vie with the modest Eulalie's most unregarded curl-- Can compare with the bright-eyed Eulalie's most humble and careless curl.
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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.
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To friends above, from fiends below, the indignant ghost is riven-- From Hell unto a high estate far up within the Heaven-- From grief and groan to a golden throne beside the King of Heaven.
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The singer is undoubtedly beneath The roof of his Excellency--and perhaps Is even that Alessandra of whom he spoke As the betrothed of Castiglione, His son and heir.
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I know what thou wouldst say--not send the message-- Well!--I will think of it--I will not send it.
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Nor have I hesitated to insert from the 'Minor Poems,' now omitted, whole lines, and even passages, to the end that being placed in a fairer light, and the trash shaken from them in which they were imbedded, they may have some chance of being seen by posterity.
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" [27] He was a goodly spirit--he who fell: A wanderer by mossy-mantled well-- A gazer on the lights that shine above-- A dreamer in the moonbeam by his love: What wonder? for each star is eye-like there, And looks so sweetly down on Beauty's hair-- And they, and ev'ry mossy spring were holy To his love-haunted heart and melancholy.
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fears Of her--who asked no reason why, But turned on me her quiet eye! Yet _more_ than worthy of the love My spirit struggled with, and strove When, on the mountain peak, alone, Ambition lent it a new tone-- I had no being--but in thee: The world, and all it did contain In the earth--the air--the sea-- Its joy--its little lot of pain That was new pleasure--the ideal, Dim, vanities of dreams by night-- And dimmer nothings which were real-- (Shadows--and a more shadowy light!) Parted upon their misty wings, And, so, confusedly, became Thine image and--a name--a name! Two separate--yet most intimate things.
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* * * * * 31.
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Thus the pressure of your sweet fingers upon my eyelids, at first only recognized through vision, at length, long after their removal, filled my whole being with a sensual delight immeasurable.
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I see the lights of the village Gleam through the rain and the mist, And a feeling of sadness comes o'er me, That my soul cannot resist; A feeling of sadness and longing, That is not akin to pain, And resembles sorrow only As the mist resembles the rain.
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The idea of the last quatrain is also very effective.
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It is by Motherwell, and is called "The Song of the Cavalier.
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Here then the poem may be said to have its beginning, at the.
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It is the _excess_ of the suggested meaning--it is the rendering this the upper instead of the under current of theme--which turns into prose (and that of the very flattest kind) the so-called poetry of the so-called transcendentalists.