Read Poe's Work

The System of Doctor Tarr and Professor Fether During the autumn of 18—, while on a tour through the extreme Southern provinces of France, my route led me within a few miles of a certain Maison de Santé, or private Mad-House, about which I had heard much, in Paris, from my medical friends. As I had never visited a place of the kind, I thought the opportunity too good to be lost; and so proposed to my travelling companion (a gentleman with whom I had made casual acquaintance, a few days before) that we should turn aside, for an hour or so, and look through the establishment. To this he ...

To One in Paradise Thou wast that all to me, love,For which my soul did pine —A green isle in the sea, love, —A fountain and a shrineAll wreathed with fairy fruits and flowersAnd all the flowers were mine. Ah, dream too bright to last!Oh, starry Hope! that didst ariseBut to be overcast!A voice from out the Future cries“On! on!” — but o’er the Past(Dim gulf!) my spirit hovering liesMute, motionless, aghast! For, alas! alas! with meThe light of Life is o’er!No more — no more — no more(Such language holds the solemn seaTo the sands upon the shore)Shall bloom the thunder-blasted tree,Or the ...

The Pit and the Pendulum I was sick — sick unto death with that long agony; and when they at length unbound me, and I was permitted to sit, I felt that my senses were leaving me. The sentence — the dread sentence of death — was the last of distinct accentuation which reached my ears. After that, the sound of the inquisitorial voices seemed merged in one dreamy indeterminate hum. It conveyed to my soul the idea of revolution, — perhaps from its association in fancy with the burr of a mill-wheel. This only for a brief period; for presently I heard no more. Yet, for a while, I saw; but with ...

A Dream Within a Dream Take this kiss upon thy brow!And, in parting from you now,Thus much let me avow —You are not wrong, who deemThat my days have been a dream;Yet if Hope has flown awayIn a night, or in a day,In a vision, or in none,Is it therefore the less gone?All that we see or seemIs but a dream within a dream. I stand amid the roarOf a surf-tormented shore,And I hold within my handGrains of the golden sand —How few! yet how they creepThrough my fingers to the deep,While I weep — while I weep!O, God! can I not graspThem with a tighter clasp?O, God! can I not ...