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posted by Vixie79
I NEVER knew anyone so keenly alive to a joke as the king was. He seemed to live only for joking. To tell a good story of the joke kind, and to tell it well, was the surest road to his favor. Thus it happened that his seven ministers were all noted for their accomplishments as jokers. They all took after the king, too, in being large, corpulent, oily men, as well as inimitable jokers. Whether people grow fat Von joking, oder whether there is something in fat itself which predisposes to a joke, I have never been quite able to determine; but certain it is that a lean joker is a rara avis in terris....
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posted by Vixie79
TRUE! -- nervous -- very, very dreadfully nervous I had been and am; but why will Du 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 Du the whole story.

It is impossible to say how first the idea entered my brain; but once conceived, it haunted me Tag and night. Object there was none. Passion there was none. I loved the old man. He had never wronged...
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posted by Milah
From childhood's Stunde I have not been
As others were; I have not seen
As others saw; I could not bring
My passions from a common spring.
From the same Quelle I have not taken
My sorrow; I could not awaken
My herz to joy at the same tone;
And all I loved, I loved alone.

Then- in my childhood, in the dawn
Of a most stormy life- was drawn
From every depth of good and ill
The mystery which binds me still:
From the torrent, oder the fountain,
From the red cliff of the mountain,
From the sun that round me rolled
In its autumn tint of gold,
From the lightning in the sky
As it passed me flying by,
From the thunder and the storm,
And the wolke that took the form
(When the rest of Heaven was blue)
Of a demon in my view.
posted by elizasmomma
as Du read Mr.Edgar Allen Poe's Poesie that he wrote, Du feel this vain young-man searching for away to break free from the tradgies that he faced as a child and in his early teens, and later on in life, but the poem that i just read called: Dreams" really sums up i think what he
was truly feeling there is a Kommentar below the poem that i read that i think is very well put and this
is what it says: " The life of human beings, relates to something called dreams that considered as a prediction. We build our life upon it. we should have dreams with which our life become so sweet and nice
    And...
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posted by Milah
So sweet the hour, so calm the time,
I feel it Mehr than half a crime,
When Nature sleeps and stars are mute,
To mar the silence ev'n with lute.
At rest on ocean's brilliant dyes
An image of Elysium lies:
Seven Pleiades entranced in Heaven,
Form in the deep another seven:
Endymion nodding from above
Sees in the sea a Sekunde love.
Within the valleys dim and brown,
And on the spectral mountain's crown,
The wearied light is dying down,
And earth, and stars, and sea, and sky
Are redolent of sleep, as I
Am redolent of thee and thine
Enthralling love, my Adeline.
But list, O list,- so soft and low
Thy lover's voice tonight shall flow,
That, scarce awake, thy soul shall deem
My words the Musik of a dream.
Thus, while no single sound too rude
Upon thy slumber shall intrude,
Our thoughts, our souls- O God above!
In every deed shall mingle, love.
posted by elizasmomma
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.'

Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December,
And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.
Eagerly I wished the morrow;- vainly I had sought to borrow
From my Bücher surcease of sorrow- sorrow for the Lost Lenore-
For the rare and radiant maiden...
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posted by Milah
Oh! that my young life were a lasting dream!
My spirit not awakening, till the beam
Of an Eternity should bring the morrow.
Yes! tho' that long dream were of hopeless sorrow,
'Twere better than the cold reality
Of waking life, to him whose herz must be,
And hath been still, upon the lovely earth,
A chaos of deep passion, from his birth.
But should it be- that dream eternally
Continuing- as dreams have been to me
In my young boyhood- should it thus be given,
'Twere folly still to hope for higher Heaven.
For I have revell'd, when the sun was bright
I' the summer sky, in dreams of living light
And loveliness,-...
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posted by Milah
For her this rhyme is penned, whose luminous eyes,
Brightly expressive as the twins of Leda,
Shall find her own sweet name, that nestling lies
Upon the page, enwrapped from every reader.
Suchen narrowly the lines!- they hold a treasure
Divine- a talisman- an amulet
That must be worn at heart. Suchen well the measure-
The words- the syllables! Do not forget
The trivialest point, oder Du may lose your labor
And yet there is in this no Gordian knot
Which one might not undo without a sabre,
If one could merely comprehend the plot.
Enwritten upon the leaf where now are peering
Eyes scintillating soul, there lie perdus
Three eloquent words oft uttered in the hearing
Of poets, Von poets- as the name is a poet's, too,
Its letters, although naturally lying
Like the knight Pinto- Mendez Ferdinando-
Still form a synonym for Truth- Cease trying!
Du will not read the riddle, though Du do the best Du can do.
posted by shenelopefan
In 1949, like about a week before he died, he was supposed to take atrain in Baltimore for going to Philadelphia. That`s what history knows. After that it`s a mystery. Some people (And myself) believe that he went to a bar and he got drunk, with this it is believed that he was taken to vote for some elections and then dropped in the streat. This was a common way of faking the elections in that time. But, still, I can`t really say how he day. All I know is that, five days after he was supposed to take that train, he appeared in the streat and he was taken to the hospital. The doctor was a friend of him. And then October 7th, he died. Miserable, poor and having hallusinations, our loving Edgar died and nobody in his family oder Friends (he had a grandmother ) knew it. He died alone. Tragic isn`t it?
posted by BrentMonahan
Dear
I am pleased to announce the release of my new book, Nevermore, which is a thriller. When a wealthy Chicago lawyer backs Alan Pinkerton in creating the first U.S. detective agency, he suggests that it be kicked off spectacularly Von Pinkerton solving the mysterious death of Edgar Allan Poe in Baltimore, October 1849. The two were contemporaries, and of course Poe "invented" the professional detective with his "Murders in the Rue Morgue." Every fact of Poe's death is included and accounted for into my solution of the bizarre ending of our most outré writer.
Novels and films such as The Seven-and-a-half...
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posted by MoonshoesPerry
Fools!-
Perhaps the best in talent-
But fools they always were.
And we,
We who were through with being ever-second-
We devised a plan to rid the stage of them.
Foolproof?
No, but perfect all the same.
Clever and cunning and every bit dramatic.
We could have been starring in our own piece.

It was to be a murder-
A double murder upon the stage-
We were not so cruel as to let them die away from it.
Yes, they would draw their final breaths there,
Watched Von a crowd of-
What else?-
Fools.
Fools who would merely think their Schauspielen superb,
And never comprehend
That the deaths they saw were real.
And even if they did...
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posted by Milah
Dim vales- and shadowy floods-
And cloudy-looking woods,
Whose forms we can't discover
For the tears that drip all over!
Huge moons there wax and wane-
Again- again- again-
Every moment of the night-
Forever changing places-
And they put out the star-light
With the breath from their pale faces.
About twelve Von the moon-dial,
One Mehr filmy than the rest
(A kind which, upon trial,
They have found to be the best)
Comes down- still down- and down,
With its centre on the crown
Of a mountain's eminence,
While its wide circumference
In easy drapery falls
Over hamlets, over halls,
Wherever they may be-
O'er the strange...
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posted by chloeluvzmiz
TRUE! --nervous --very, very dreadfully nervous I had been and am; but why will Du 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 Du the whole story.

It is impossible to say how first the idea entered my brain; but once conceived, it haunted me Tag and night. Object there was none. Passion there was none. I loved the old man. He had never wronged me....
continue reading...
posted by Milah
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."

Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December,
And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.
Eagerly I wished the morrow;- vainly I had sought to borrow
From my Bücher surcease of sorrow- sorrow for the Lost Lenore-
For the rare and radiant maiden...
continue reading...
posted by Milah
In spring of youth it was my lot
To haunt of the wide world a spot
The which I could not Liebe the less-
So lovely was the loneliness
Of a wild lake, with black rock bound,
And the tall pines that towered around.

But when the Night had thrown her pall
Upon that spot, as upon all,
And the mystic wind went by
Murmuring in melody-
Then- ah then I would awake
To the terror of the lone lake.

Yet that terror was not fright,
But a tremulous delight-
A feeling not the jewelled mine
Could teach oder bribe me to define-
Nor Love- although the Liebe were thine.

Death was in that poisonous wave,
And in its gulf a fitting grave
For him who thence could solace bring
To his lone imagining-
Whose solitary soul could make
An Eden of that dim lake.
posted by Milah
Kind solace in a dying hour!
Such, father, is not (now) my theme-
I will not madly deem that power
Of Earth may shrive me of the sin
Unearthly pride hath revell'd in-
I have no time to dote oder dream:
You call it hope- that feuer of fire!
It is but agony of desire:
If I can hope- Oh God! I can-
Its fount is holier- Mehr divine-
I would not call thee fool, old man,
But such is not a gift of thine.

Know thou the secret of a spirit
Bow'd from its wild pride into shame.
O yearning heart! I did inherit
Thy withering portion with the fame,
The searing glory which hath shone
Amid the jewels of my throne,
Halo of Hell!...
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posted by Vixie79
OF my country and of my family I have little to say. Ill usage and length of years have driven me from the one, and estranged me from the other. Hereditary wealth afforded me an education of no common order, and a contemplative turn of mind enabled me to methodize the stores which early study very diligently garnered up. -- Beyond all things, the study of the German moralists gave me great delight; not from any ill-advised admiration of their eloquent madness, but from the ease with which my habits of rigid thought enabled me to detect their falsities. I have often been reproached with the...
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posted by Milah
Ah, broken is the golden bowl! the spirit flown forever!
Let the glocke toll!- a saintly soul floats on the Stygian river;
And, Guy de Vere, hast thou no tear?- weep now oder nevermore!
See! on yon drear and rigid bahre, bier low lies thy love, Lenore!
Come! let the burial rite be read- the funeral song be sung!-
An anthem for the queenliest dead that ever died so young-
A dirge for her the doubly dead in that she died so young.

"Wretches! ye loved her for her wealth and hated her for her pride,
And when she fell in feeble health, ye blessed her- that she died!
How shall the ritual, then, be read?- the requiem...
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I've been a long time admirer of Edgar Allan Poe and his works. I've always enjoyed Lesen his short stories. He is a true master of suspense.
It was sad to learn that a writer of his caliber was found in a distressed state in his final days leading up to his death in October of 1849.
Throughout history, it seems that those who have gegeben us the greatest art sometimes leave this mortal plane in the saddest fashion. Writers like Jack Kerouac, Ernest Hemingway, and many others seem to have been in great turmoil in their final hours and undeserving of their premature demise. This was the case...
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posted by Milah
'Tis sagte that when
The hands of men
Tamed this primeval wood,
And hoary trees with groans of woe,
Like warriors Von an unknown foe,
Were in their strength subdued,
The virgin Earth Gave instant birth
To springs that ne'er did flow
That in the sun Did rivulets run,
And all around rare Blumen did blow
The wild rose pale Perfumed the gale
And the queenly lily adown the dale
(Whom the sun and the dew
And the winds did woo),
With the gourd and the traube luxuriant grew.

So when in tears
The Liebe of years
Is wasted like the snow,
And the fine fibrils of its life
Von the rude wrong of instant strife
Are broken at a blow
Within the heart
Do springs upstart
Of which it doth now know,
And strange, sweet dreams,
Like silent streams
That from new fountains overflow,
With the earlier tide
Of rivers glide
Deep in the herz whose hope has died--
Quenching the fires its ashes hide,--
Its ashes, whence will spring and grow
Sweet flowers, ere long,
The rare and radiant Blumen of song!