I dwelt alone In a world of moan, And my soul was a stagnant tide, Till the fair and gentle Eulalie became my blushing bride- Till the yellow-haired young Eulalie became my smiling bride.
Ah, less- less bright The stars of the night Than the eyes of the radiant girl! That the vapor can make With the moon-tints of purple and pearl, Can vie with the modest Eulalie’s most unregarded curl- Can compare with the bright-eyed Eulalie’s most humble and careless curl.
Now Doubt- now Pain Come never again, For her soul gives me sigh for sigh, And all day long Shines, bright and strong, Astarte within the sky, While ever to her dear Eulalie upturns her matron eye- While ever to her young Eulalie upturns her violet eye.
-Edgar Allan Poe
*I showed my mother this poem and she had me hand write it for her. She kept it with her things, long gone by now, but she felt special at that moment. A happiness that she was unable to find during her own lifetime.*
How uncommon my mother’s name is, I never thought one of my favorite writers would have a poem with her name.
I never want anyone to think I’m biting their style. Is it a crime to admire someone else’s mind and creativity? I have so much bottled in this head of mine and sometimes I wonder what would be if I paid enough attention to it all. What I consider simple and childish, concerning my work, others are amazed; it all confuses me. Maybe all I need is a new set of eyes to provide feedback on my things.. or a bomb ass set of rose-colored glasses.
"You’ll be the death of me," he said polishing his shot class of its multi-rummed concoction.
Had he known that I was thinking the same thing I believe he would’ve headed for the hills screaming and never looked back. I never meant for this to happen so soon, but “til death do you part” means so…