Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December;_x000D_ _x000D_ And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor._x000D_ _x000D_ Eagerly, I wished the morrow; - vainly I had sought to borrow_x000D_ _x000D_ From my books surcease of sorrow - sorrow for the lost Leonore -_x000D_ _x000D_ For the rare and radiant maiden who the angels name Lenore -_x000D_ _x000D_ Nameless here for evermore.
Interpretation
The quote reflects deep sorrow and longing for a lost loved one, illustrating how memories can haunt us.
In this poignant passage from Edgar Allan Poe, the speaker recalls a moment of intense grief and nostalgia during a cold December night, capturing the essence of mourning for a lost love, Lenore. The imagery of dying embers symbolizes the fading warmth of life and happiness, while the mention of seeking solace in books highlights the futility of escaping inner sorrow. Ultimately, the sorrow for Lenore, named only in memory, underscores the enduring pain of loss and the haunting nature of unresolved feelings.
In practice
This quote could be used in a eulogy to express the pain of losing a loved one.
But evil things, in robes of sorrow, Assailed the monarch's high estate; (Ah, let us mourn, for never morrow Shall dawn upon him desolate!) And round about his home the glory That blushed and bloomed, Is but a dim-remembered story Of the old time entombed.
Most writers - poets in especial - prefer having it understood that they compose by a species of fine frenzy - an ecstatic intuition - and would positively shudder at letting the public take a peep behind the scenes.
...the agony of my soul found vent in one loud, long and final scream of despair.
Where the good and the bad and the worst and the best have gone to their eternal rest.
I could have clasped the red walls to my bosom as a garment of eternal peace. "Death," I said, "any death but that of the pit!" Fool! might I have not known that into the pit it was the object of the burning iron to urge me?
In our endeavors to recall to memory something long forgotten, we often find ourselves upon the very verge of remembrance, without being able, in the end, to remember.
It is a pink and blue feeling, as sharp as clear sky; a slight breeze, and the edges of Lake Nakuru would rise like the ruffle at the edge of a skirt; and I am pockmarked with whole-body pinpricks of potentiality. A stretch of my body would surely stretch as far as the sky. The whole universe poised, and I am the agent of any movement.
Life is like the harp string, if it is strung too tight it won't play, if it is too loose it hangs, the tension that produces the beautiful sound lies in the middle.
I don’t want to be a Princess,” she said finally. “You can’t make me be one.” She knew very well what became of Princesses, as Princesses often get books written about them. Either terrible things happened to them, such as kidnappings and curses and pricking fingers and getting poisoned and locked up in towers, or else they just waited around till the Prince finished with the story and got around to marrying her. Either way, September wanted nothing to do with Princessing.
I've been fat since I was seven, and being fat sets you apart.
And he had a nice home in Ohio with wife, daughter, Christmas tree, two cars, garage, lawn, lawnmower, but he couldn't enjoy any of it because he really wasn't free. It was sadly true.
According to traditional wisdom in rural France, a baby in the womb should be compared to fruit on the tree. Not all the fruit on the same tree is ripe at the same time...we must accept that some babies need a much longer time than others before they are ready to be born.
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