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. I know not how it was
--but, with the first glimpse of the building, a sense of insufferable
gloom pervaded my spirit. I say insufferable; for the feeling was unrelieved by any of that
half-pleasurable, because poetic, sentiment, with which the mind usually
receives even the sternest natural images of the desolate or terrible. I
looked upon the scene before me --upon the mere house, and the simple
landscape features of the domain - upon the bleak walls - upon the
vacant eye-like windows - upon a few rank sedges
- and upon a few white trunks of decayed trees --with an utter
depression of soul which I can compare to no earthly sensation more
properly than to the after-dream of the reveller upon opium --the bitter
lapse into everyday life --the hideous dropping off of the veil. There
was an iciness, a sinking, a sickening of the heart.
The Fall of the House of Usher
"Fill with mingled cream and amber,
ResponderEliminarI will drain that glass again.
Such hilarious visions clamber
Through the chambers of my brain.
Quantist thoughts – queerest fancies,
Come to life and fade away:
What care I how time advances?
I am drinking ale today."
Poe
do Ricardo irmão do Pedro