Textual Notes for the Tales of Edgar Allan Poe: Vols. II to VI

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T.Y. Crowell & Company, 1902 - 2 pages
 

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Page 387 - And the will therein lieth, which dieth not. Who knoweth the mysteries of the will, with its vigor ? For God is but a great will pervading all things by nature of its intentness. Man doth not yield himself to the angels, nor unto death utterly, save only through the weakness of his feeble will.
Page 307 - Science Science! true daughter of Old Time thou art! Who alterest all things with thy peering eyes. Why preyest thou thus upon the poet's heart, Vulture, whose wings are dull realities? How should he love thee? or how deem thee wise, Who wouldst not leave him in his wandering To seek for treasure in the jewelled skies, Albeit he soared with an undaunted wing? Hast thou not dragged Diana from her car?
Page 307 - Science! true daughter of Old Time thou art! Who alterest all things with thy peering eyes. Why preyest thou thus upon the poet's heart, Vulture, whose wings are dull realities? How should he love thee? or how deem thee wise, Who wouldst not leave him in his wandering To seek for treasure in the jewelled skies, Albeit he soared with an undaunted wing? Hast thou not dragged Diana from her car? And driven the Hamadryad from the wood To seek a shelter in some happier star? Hast thou not torn the Naiad...
Page 403 - THE NARRATIVE OF ARTHUR. GORDON PYM of Nantucket. Comprising the Details of a Mutiny and atrocious Butchery on board the American Brig Grampus, on her way to the South Seas, in the Month of June, 1827.
Page 285 - They are— they are! This wild star it is now three centuries since, with clasped hands, and with streaming eyes, at the feet of my beloved— I spoke it— with a few passionate sentences— into birth. Its brilliant flowers are the dearest of all unfulfilled dreams, and its raging volcanoes are the passions of the most turbulent and unhallowed of hearts.
Page 320 - Art is long, and Time is fleeting, And our hearts, though stout and brave, Still, like muffled drums, are beating Funeral marches to the grave.
Page 361 - I arise and walk — between the elasticity of my motion, and the mountain of my form. The night came — and with it a new crowd of horrors. The consciousness of my approaching interment, began to assume new distinctness, and consistency — yet never for one moment did I imagine that I ivas actually dead.

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