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.
And I said, 'That last thing is what you can't get, Carlo. Nobody can get to that last thing. We keep on living in hopes of catching it once and for all.
The measure of your life will not be in what you accumulate, but in what you give away.
No sooner do we think we have assembled a comfortable life than we find a piece of ourselves that has no place to fit in.
Everyone must leave something behind when he dies, my grandfather said. A child or a book or a painting or a house or a wall built or a pair of shoes made. Or a garden planted. Something your hand touched some way so your soul has somewhere to go when you die, and when people look at that tree or that flower you planted, you're there.
I acquired more wealth, power, and prestige than most. But you can acquire all you want and still feel empty. What power wouldn't I trade for a little more time with my family? What price wouldn't I pay for an evening with friends? It took a deadly illness to put me eye to eye with that truth, but it is a truth that the country, caught up in its ruthless ambitions and moral decay, can learn on my dime.
There's that bubble of childhood that makes you innocently do anything. Then, when you get older, that pops, and you're aware of limitations and judgment and social pressures and things like that.
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