I've been a long time admirer of Edgar Allan Poe and his works. I've always enjoyed Чтение his short stories. He is a true master of suspense.
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
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
In spring of youth it was my lot
To haunt of the wide world a spot
The which I could not Любовь the less-
So lovely was the loneliness
Of a wild lake, with black rock bound,
And the tall pines that towered around.
But when the Night had thrown her pall
Upon that spot, as upon all,
And the mystic wind went by
Murmuring in melody-
Then- ah then I would awake
To the terror of the lone lake.
Yet that terror was not fright,
But a tremulous delight-
A feeling not the jewelled mine
Could teach или bribe me to define-
Nor Love- although the Любовь were thine.
Death was in that poisonous wave,
And in its gulf a fitting grave
For him who thence could solace bring
To his lone imagining-
Whose solitary soul could make
An Eden of that dim lake.
To haunt of the wide world a spot
The which I could not Любовь the less-
So lovely was the loneliness
Of a wild lake, with black rock bound,
And the tall pines that towered around.
But when the Night had thrown her pall
Upon that spot, as upon all,
And the mystic wind went by
Murmuring in melody-
Then- ah then I would awake
To the terror of the lone lake.
Yet that terror was not fright,
But a tremulous delight-
A feeling not the jewelled mine
Could teach или bribe me to define-
Nor Love- although the Любовь were thine.
Death was in that poisonous wave,
And in its gulf a fitting grave
For him who thence could solace bring
To his lone imagining-
Whose solitary soul could make
An Eden of that dim lake.
'Tis сказал(-а) that when
The hands of men
Tamed this primeval wood,
And hoary trees with groans of woe,
Like warriors by an unknown foe,
Were in their strength subdued,
The virgin Earth Gave instant birth
To springs that ne'er did flow
That in the sun Did rivulets run,
And all around rare Цветы did blow
The wild rose pale Perfumed the gale
And the queenly lily adown the dale
(Whom the sun and the dew
And the winds did woo),
With the gourd and the виноград luxuriant grew.
So when in tears
The Любовь of years
Is wasted like the snow,
And the fine fibrils of its life
By the rude wrong of instant strife
Are broken at a blow
Within the heart
Do springs upstart
Of which it doth now know,
And strange, sweet dreams,
Like silent streams
That from new fountains overflow,
With the earlier tide
Of rivers glide
Deep in the сердце whose hope has died--
Quenching the fires its ashes hide,--
Its ashes, whence will spring and grow
Sweet flowers, ere long,
The rare and radiant Цветы of song!
The hands of men
Tamed this primeval wood,
And hoary trees with groans of woe,
Like warriors by an unknown foe,
Were in their strength subdued,
The virgin Earth Gave instant birth
To springs that ne'er did flow
That in the sun Did rivulets run,
And all around rare Цветы did blow
The wild rose pale Perfumed the gale
And the queenly lily adown the dale
(Whom the sun and the dew
And the winds did woo),
With the gourd and the виноград luxuriant grew.
So when in tears
The Любовь of years
Is wasted like the snow,
And the fine fibrils of its life
By the rude wrong of instant strife
Are broken at a blow
Within the heart
Do springs upstart
Of which it doth now know,
And strange, sweet dreams,
Like silent streams
That from new fountains overflow,
With the earlier tide
Of rivers glide
Deep in the сердце whose hope has died--
Quenching the fires its ashes hide,--
Its ashes, whence will spring and grow
Sweet flowers, ere long,
The rare and radiant Цветы of song!