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First Lines of Edgar Allan PoeAt midnight, in the month of June, At morn -- at noon -- at twilight dim, Because I feel that, in the Heavens above, Beloved! amid the earnest woes By a route obscure and lonely, Dim vales, and shadowy floods, During the whole of a dull, dark, and soundless day in the autumn of the year, when the clouds hung oppressively low in the heavens, I had been passing alone, on horseback, through a singularly dreary tract of country; and at length found myself, as the shades of the evening drew on, within view of the melancholy House of Usher. Fair isle, that from the fairest of all flowers Fair river! in thy bright, clear flow For her this rhyme is penned, whose luminous eyes, Gayly bedight, Hear the sledges with the bells, Helen, thy beauty is to me. I heed not that my earthly lot I saw thee on thy bridal day, I saw thee once -- once only -- years ago: 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. In Heaven a spirit doth dwell In spring of youth it was my lot In the greenest of our valleys In visions of the dark night In youth have I known one with whom the Earth, It was many and many a year ago, It was noontide of summer, Kind solace in a dying hour! Lo! Death has reared himself a throne Lo! 't is a gala night Not long ago the writer of these lines, Of all who hail thy presence as the morning; Oh, that my young life were a lasting dream! Once it smiled a silent dell Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary, Romance, who loves to nod and sing Science! true daughter of Old Time thou art, Seldom we find," says Solomon Don Dunce, Take this kiss upon the brow! Thank Heaven! the crisis, The bowers whereat, in dreams, I see The happiest day, the happiest hour The
Red Deathhad long devastated the country. The ring is on my hand, The skies they were ashen and sober; The thousand injuries of Fortunato I had borne as I best could; but when he ventured upon insult, I vowed revenge. There are some qualities, some incorporate things, Thou wast all that to me, love, Thou wouldst be loved? -- then let thy heart Thy soul shall find itself alone Type of the antique Rome! Rich reliquary Ye who read are still among the living; but I who write shall have long since gone my way into the region of shadows.