Alas! for that accursed time They bore thee o'er the billow, From love to titled age and crime, And an unholy pillow! From me, and from our misty clime, Where weeps the silver willow!
Interpretation
This quote expresses a sense of loss and sorrow due to the passage of time and the corruption of love.
In this poignant reflection, Edgar Allan Poe laments the journey of love twisted by time into something corrupt and painful. The imagery of the 'accursed time' and 'unholy pillow' suggests a romantic ideal that has been marred by societal expectations and moral decay, evoking deep emotions of longing and grief for what has been lost.
In practice
A speaker could use this quote during a poetry reading to illustrate the complexities of love.
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.
If you want to cure the world, don't emanate fear - emanate love.
While the womanly god demands our veneration, the godlike woman kindles our love; but while we allow ourselves to melt in the celestial loveliness, the celestial self-sufficiency holds us back in awe.
O rose, who dares to name thee?_x000D_ _x000D_ No longer roseate now, nor soft, nor sweet,_x000D_ _x000D_ But pale, and hard, and dry, as stubblewheat,_x000D_ _x000D_ Kept seven years in a drawer, thy titles shame thee.
Ever since I first came here in 1963 to fight Henry Cooper, I have loved the people of England.
In the end, love wins. It does win. We know it wins. When a person dies, love isn’t turned off like a faucet. It is an amazingly resilient part of us.
God's love is too great to be confined to any one side of a conflict or to any one religion.
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