Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered weak and weary.
Sentiment: NEGATIVE
In the cellars of the night, when the mind starts moving around old trunks of bad times, the pain of this and the shame of that, the memory of a small boldness is a hand to hold.
I had become, with the approach of night, once more aware of loneliness and time - those two companions without whom no journey can yield us anything.
I reached for sleep and drew it round me like a blanket muffling pain and thought together in the merciful dark.
Oh, I am very weary, Though tears no longer flow; My eyes are tired of weeping, My heart is sick of woe.
When you are old and gray and full of sleep, and nodding by the fire, take down this book and slowly read, and dream of the soft look your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep.
It's a brooding melancholy that haunts me.
From the night, his solitude, the poet finds day and starts a diary that is lethal to the inert. The dark landscape yields a dialogue.
For me, when I 'discover' a story, there is a feeling of buoyancy and clarity, perhaps similar to early morning out on a prairie highway, when darkness lifts and reveals the outline of farmhouses and copses of trees in the distance.
I wondered vaguely if this was when it would end, whether I would pull up tonight's darkness like a quilt and be dead and at peace evermore.
Once upon a perfect night, unclouded and still, there came the face of a pale and beautiful lady. The tresses of her hair reached out to make the constellations, and the dewy vapours of her gown fell soft upon the land.