Read Poe's Work

Ligeia 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. JOSEPH GLANVILL. I cannot, for my soul, remember how, when, or even precisely where, I first became acquainted with the lady Ligeia. Long years have since elapsed, and my memory is feeble through much suffering. Or, perhaps, I cannot now bring these points to mind, because, ...

Alone From childhood’s hour I have not beenAs others were — I have not seenAs others saw — I could not bringMy passions from a common spring —From the same source I have not takenMy sorrow — I could not awakenMy heart to joy at the same tone —And all I lov’d — I lov’d alone —Then — in my childhood — in the dawnOf a most stormy life — was drawnFrom ev’ry depth of good and illThe mystery which binds me still —From the torrent, or the fountain —From the red cliff of the mountain —From the sun that ’round me roll’dIn its autumn tint of gold —From the lightning in the skyAs it ...

Eleonora Sub conservatione formae specificae salva anima. Raymond Lully. I am come of a race noted for vigor of fancy and ardor of passion. Men have called me mad; but the question is not yet settled, whether madness is or is not the loftiest intelligence — whether much that is glorious — whether all that is profound — does not spring from disease of thought — from moods of mind exalted at the expense of the general intellect. They who dream by day are cognizant of many things which escape those who dream only by night. In their gray visions they obtain glimpses of eternity, and ...

William Wilson. A Tale. What say of it? what say of conscience grim,That spectre in my path?  CHAMBERLAINE’S PHARRONIDA. Let me call myself, for the present, William Wilson. The fair page now lying before me need not be sullied with my real appellation. This has been already too much an object for the scorn, for the horror, for the detestation of my race. To the uttermost regions of the globe have not the indignant winds bruited its unparalleled infamy? oh, outcast of all outcasts most abandoned! To the earth art thou not for ever dead? to its honours, to its ...