In the internal decoration, if not in the external architecture of their residences, the English are supreme. The Italians have but little sentiment beyond marbles and colors. In France, meliora probant, deteriora sequuntur -- the people are too much a race of gadabouts to maintain those household proprieties of which, indeed, they have a delicate appreciation, or at least the elements of a proper sense. The Chinese and most of the Eastern races have a warm but inappropriate fancy. The Scotch are poor decorists. The Dutch have, perhaps, an indeterminate idea that a curtain is not a cabbage. In Spain, they are all curtains -- a nation of hangmen. The Russians do not furnish. The Hottentots and Kickapoos are very well in their way. The Yankees alone are preposterous.
Edgar Allan PoeTags: edgar-allan-poe philosophy-of-furniture
Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,
By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore.
Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou," I said, "art sure no craven,
Ghastly grim and ancient raven wandering from the Nightly shore —
Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night's Plutonian shore!"
Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore.
She was a maiden of rarest beauty, and not more lovely than full of glee. And evil was the hour when she saw, and loved, and wedded the painter. He, passionate, studious, austere, and having already a bride in his Art; she a maiden of rarest beauty, and not more lovely than full of glee; all light and smiles, and frolicsome as the young fawn; loving and cherishing all things; hating only the Art which was her rival;
Edgar Allan PoeIt was in this apartment, also, that there stood against the western wall, a gigantic clock of ebony. It's pendulum swung to and fro with a dull, heavy, monotonous clang; and when the minute-hand made the circuit of the face, and the hour was to be stricken, there came from the brazen lungs of the clock a sound which was clear and loud and deep and exceedingly musical, but of so peculiar a note and emphasis that, at each lapse of an hour, the musicians of the note orchestra were constrained to pause, momentarily, in their performance, to harken to the sound and thus the waltzers perforce ceased their evolutions; and there was a brief disconcert of the whole gay company; and, while the chimes of the clock yet rang, it was observes that the giddiest grew pale, and the more aged and sedate passed their hands over their brows as in confessed revery or meditation
Edgar Allan PoeDeep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,
Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortals ever dared to dream before;
But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token,
And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, "Lenore?"
This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, "Lenore!" —
Merely this, and nothing more
But the raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only,
That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.
Nothing further then he uttered - not a feather then he fluttered -
Till I scarcely more than muttered `Other friends have flown before -
On the morrow he will leave me, as my hopes have flown before.’
Then the bird said, 'Nevermore.
At length for my seared and writhing body there was no longer an inch of foothold on the firm floor of the prison. I struggled no more, but the agony of my soul found vent in one loud, long, and final scream of despair. I felt that I tottered upon the brink -- I averted my eyes --
Edgar Allan PoeNelaimei ir daudz seju. Ļaužu izmisumam ir daudzi veidi. Līdzīgi varavīksnei, tas liecas pāri plašajam apvārsnim, un tā veidi ir tikpat dažādi kā šī loka krāsas- tikpat izšķirīgas un tomēr saplūdušas vienotā mirdzumā. Liecas pāri plašajam apvārsnim kā varavīksne! Kā gan varēja gadīties, ka es minēju skaisto, lai izskaidrotu pretīgo, izvēlējos miera vēstnesi par salīdzinājumu postam.? Bet, tāpat kā ētiskos secinājumos ļaunums ir labā sekas, tā arī no prieka dzimst bēdas.
Edgar Allan PoeVai nu atmiņas par vakardienas laimi liek mums ciest šodien, vai arī šīsdienas ciešanu sakne meklējama pāri plūstošā priekā, kas varētu būt bijis.
Edgar Allan PoeEs baidos no nākotnes, pareizāk sakot, - no tā, ko tā nesīs. Nodrebu, domādams, ka ikviens, pat visnenozīmīgākais notikums var manas dvēseles satraukumu vērst neizturamu. Īstenībā es nebaidos no briesmām, bet no šausmām, ko tās izraisa. Savā nožēlojamā, drosmi paralizējošā stāvoklī jūtu, ka agrāk vai vēlāk pienāks diena, kad cīņā ar nepielūdzamo rēgu- BAILĒM, būs jāatsakās ne vien no dzīves, bet arī no saprāta.
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