It was sad to learn that a writer of his caliber was found in a distressed state in his final days leading up to his death in October of 1849.
Throughout history, it seems that those who have дана us the greatest art sometimes leave this mortal plane in the saddest fashion. Writers like Jack Kerouac, Ernest Hemingway, and many others seem to have been in great turmoil in their final hours and undeserving of their premature demise. This was the case for Poe. Often, I wonder what Poe would have accomplished if he had lived past the age of forty. What kind of stories and Поэзия would we see from him in his later years if he had lived longer? Of course, there's no answer to this. I suppose it makes his body of work even еще precious to those who have read it and knew of the history of his life.
In homage to him, I wrote a short story that got published. It is my humble attempt to pay tribute to such a great writer.
Short Story Link: link
B. A. Varghese
From childhood's час I have not been
As others were; I have not seen
As others saw; I could not bring
My passions from a common spring.
From the same Источник I have not taken
My sorrow; I could not awaken
My сердце to joy at the same tone;
And all I loved, I loved alone.
Then- in my childhood, in the dawn
Of a most stormy life- was drawn
From every depth of good and ill
The mystery which binds me still:
From the torrent, или the fountain,
From the red cliff of the mountain,
From the sun that round me rolled
In its autumn tint of gold,
From the lightning in the sky
As it passed me flying by,
From the thunder and the storm,
And the облако that took the form
(When the rest of Heaven was blue)
Of a demon in my view.
As others were; I have not seen
As others saw; I could not bring
My passions from a common spring.
From the same Источник I have not taken
My sorrow; I could not awaken
My сердце to joy at the same tone;
And all I loved, I loved alone.
Then- in my childhood, in the dawn
Of a most stormy life- was drawn
From every depth of good and ill
The mystery which binds me still:
From the torrent, или the fountain,
From the red cliff of the mountain,
From the sun that round me rolled
In its autumn tint of gold,
From the lightning in the sky
As it passed me flying by,
From the thunder and the storm,
And the облако that took the form
(When the rest of Heaven was blue)
Of a demon in my view.
