The Works of Edgar Allan Poe — Volume 3

By Edgar Allan Poe

Page 182

holy man
the syllables--Morella? What more than fiend convulsed the features of
my child, and overspread them with hues of death, as starting at that
scarcely audible sound, she turned her glassy eyes from the earth to
heaven, and falling prostrate on the black slabs of our ancestral vault,
responded--“I am here!”

Distinct, coldly, calmly distinct, fell those few simple sounds within
my ear, and thence like molten lead rolled hissingly into my brain.
Years--years may pass away, but the memory of that epoch never. Nor was
I indeed ignorant of the flowers and the vine--but the hemlock and the
cypress overshadowed me night and day. And I kept no reckoning of time
or place, and the stars of my fate faded from heaven, and therefore the
earth grew dark, and its figures passed by me like flitting shadows,
and among them all I beheld only--Morella. The winds of the firmament
breathed but one sound within my ears, and the ripples upon the sea
murmured evermore--Morella. But she died; and with my own hands I bore
her to the tomb; and I laughed with a long and bitter laugh as I found
no traces of the first in the channel where I laid the second.--Morella.




A TALE OF THE RAGGED MOUNTAINS

DURING the fall of the year 1827, while residing near Charlottesville,
Virginia, I casually made the acquaintance of Mr. Augustus Bedloe. This
young gentleman was remarkable in every respect, and excited in me a
profound interest and curiosity. I found it impossible to comprehend
him either in his moral or his physical relations. Of his family I could
obtain no satisfactory account. Whence he came, I never ascertained.
Even about his age--although I call him a young gentleman--there was
something which perplexed me in no little degree. He certainly seemed
young--and he made a point of speaking about his youth--yet there were
moments when I should have had little trouble in imagining him a hundred
years of age. But in no regard was he more peculiar than in his personal
appearance. He was singularly tall and thin. He stooped much. His limbs
were exceedingly long and emaciated. His forehead was broad and low. His
complexion was absolutely bloodless. His mouth was large and flexible,
and his teeth were more wildly uneven, although sound, than I had ever
before seen teeth in a human head. The expression of his smile,
however, was by no means unpleasing, as might be supposed; but it had
no variation whatever. It was one of profound melancholy--of a phaseless
and unceasing gloom. His eyes were abnormally large, and round like
those of a

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Text Comparison with Le Corbeau = The Raven

Page 0
"'Tis some visitor," I muttered, "tapping at my chamber door-- Only this and nothing more.
Page 1
_Mon âme devint subitement plus forte et, n'hésitant davantage «Monsieur, dis-je, ou Madame, j'implore véritablement votre pardon; mais le fait est que je somnolais et vous vîntes si doucement frapper, et si faiblement vous vîntes heurter, heurter à la porte de ma chambre, que j'étais à peine sûr de vous avoir entendu.
Page 2
Voyons donc ce qu'il y a et explorons ce mystère--que mon coeur se calme un moment et explore ce mystère; c'est le vent et rien de plus.
Page 3
» Le Corbeau dit: «Jamais plus.
Page 4
" _Mais le Corbeau, perché solitairement sur ce buste placide, parla ce seul mot comme si, son âme, en ce seul mot, il la répandait.
Page 5
»_ This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom's core; This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining On the cushion's velvet lining that the lamp-light gloated o'er, But whose velvet violet lining with the lamp-light gloating o'er, _She_ shall press, ah, nevermore! _Cela, je m'assis occupé à le conjecturer, mais n'adressant pas une syllabe à l'oiseau dont les yeux de feu brûlaient, maintenant, au fond de mon sein; cela et plus encore, je m'assis pour le deviner, ma tête reposant à l'aise sur la housse de velours des coussins que dévorait la lumière de la lampe, housse violette de velours dévoré par la lumière de la lampe qu'_Elle_ ne pressera plus, ah! jamais plus.
Page 6
» Le Corbeau dit: «Jamais plus!»_ "Prophet!" said I, "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 saintly maiden whom the angels name Lenore-- Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore.
Page 7
«Recule en la tempête et le rivage plutonien de Nuit! Ne laisse pas une plume noire ici comme un gage du mensonge qu'a proféré ton âme.