The red death had long devastated the country. No pestilence had ever been so fatal, or so hideous. Blood was its Avatar and its seal–the madness and the horror of blood. There were sharp pains, and... [+]
Classics
Edgar Allan Poe was an American writer, editor and literary critic. He was the central figure of Romanticism in the United States and one of the country’s earliest practitioners of the short story. He is very famous for his tales and poems of horror and mystery, his short stories and his use of the macabre. He was also the first well known American writer to try and make a living out of writing alone.
The red death had long devastated the country. No pestilence had ever been so fatal, or so hideous. Blood was its Avatar and its seal–the madness and the horror of blood. There were sharp pains, and... [+]
At Paris, just after dark one gusty evening in the autumn of 18–, I was enjoying the twofold luxury of meditation and a meerschaum, in company with my friend C. Auguste Dupin, in his little back... [+]
True! –nervous –very, very dreadfully nervous I had been and am; but why will you say that I am mad? The disease had sharpened my senses –not destroyed –not dulled them. Above all... [+]
The skies they were ashen and sober;
The leaves they were crispéd and sere—
The leaves they were withering and sere;
It was night in the lonesome October
Of my most immemorial... [+]
The thousand injuries of Fortunato I had borne as I best could, but when he ventured upon insult I vowed revenge. You, who so well know the nature of my soul, will not suppose, however, that gave... [+]
Take this kiss upon the brow!
And, in parting from you now,
Thus much let me avow–
You are not wrong who deem
That my days have been a dream;
Yet if hope has flown away
In a night, or in a... [+]
Thy soul shall find itself alone
'Mid dark thoughts of the grey tomb-stone;
Not one, of all the crowd, to pry
Into thine hour of secrecy.
Be silent in that solitude,
Which is not loneliness... [+]
Son coeur est un luth suspendu;
Sitôt qu'on le touche il résonne.
De Béranger.
During the whole of a dull, dark, and soundless day in the autumn of the year, when the clouds hung... [+]
Impia tortorum longas hic turba furores
Sanguinis innocui non satiata, aluit.
Sospite nunc patria, fracto nunc funeris antro,
Mors ubi dira fuit vita salusque patent.
I WAS sick, sick unto... [+]