Happy Halloween, Day 7
Oct. 7th, 2007 06:56 amHappy birthday to
fory_san! May you have a marvelous day today and your very best year yet.
On this day in 1849, Edgar Allan Poe died under mysterious circumstances. For more information, read "Mysterious for Evermore" by Matthew Pearl, an article on Poe's death from The Telegraph. Pearl is the author of a recent novel about the subject, The Poe Shadow. I finished reading it a couple of weeks ago, and I found it to be quite interesting.

Links of the Day: The following are some of my favorite links on Edgar Allan Poe:
* PoeStories.com: An Exploration of Short Stories by Edgar Allan Poe
* The Edgar Allan Poe Society of Baltimore
* The Poe Museum of Richmond
Literature of the Day: Here is one of Poe's chilling poems:
"The Conqueror Worm"
by Edgar Allan Poe (1809-1849)
Lo! ’tis a gala night
Within the lonesome latter years!
An angel throng, bewinged, bedight
In veils, and drowned in tears,
Sit in a theatre, to see
A play of hopes and fears,
While the orchestra breathes fitfully
The music of the spheres.
Mimes, in the form of God on high,
Mutter and mumble low,
And hither and thither fly—
Mere puppets they, who come and go
At bidding of vast formless things
That shift the scenery to and fro,
Flapping from out their Condor wings
Invisible Wo!
( That motley drama—oh, be sure )
On this day in 1849, Edgar Allan Poe died under mysterious circumstances. For more information, read "Mysterious for Evermore" by Matthew Pearl, an article on Poe's death from The Telegraph. Pearl is the author of a recent novel about the subject, The Poe Shadow. I finished reading it a couple of weeks ago, and I found it to be quite interesting.

Links of the Day: The following are some of my favorite links on Edgar Allan Poe:
* PoeStories.com: An Exploration of Short Stories by Edgar Allan Poe
* The Edgar Allan Poe Society of Baltimore
* The Poe Museum of Richmond
Literature of the Day: Here is one of Poe's chilling poems:
"The Conqueror Worm"
by Edgar Allan Poe (1809-1849)
Lo! ’tis a gala night
Within the lonesome latter years!
An angel throng, bewinged, bedight
In veils, and drowned in tears,
Sit in a theatre, to see
A play of hopes and fears,
While the orchestra breathes fitfully
The music of the spheres.
Mimes, in the form of God on high,
Mutter and mumble low,
And hither and thither fly—
Mere puppets they, who come and go
At bidding of vast formless things
That shift the scenery to and fro,
Flapping from out their Condor wings
Invisible Wo!
( That motley drama—oh, be sure )