Rain turned to ice,and lightning splintered, it splicedthe black sky, it seeped a bright white.All animals they fled,from the sky as it bled,pale death that fell veiling the night.
They say that history is going on somewhere.They say it won't stop. I have heldOne picture still for a long time and waited.
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They say that history is going on somewhere.They say it won't stop. I have heldOne picture still for a long time and waited.
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Wrath crawled out from the well,on direction from Hell,to get back what it once lost.With vengeance in mind,it set out to find,a specified soul to accost.When the Hell-well beckoned,Mother__ will now reckoned,her dead soul now wholly enslaved.Embodied in a rotting husk,the corpse reeked of putrid musk,her being wholly depraved.
And the silken, sad, uncertain rustling of each purple curtain Thrilled me- filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before; So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating, "'Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door- Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door;- This it is, and nothing more.
In the unlikely story that is America, there has never been anything false about hope.
Love is an exorcism of angels.
If on thoughts of death we are fed,Thus, a coffin, became my bed.