Author: Edgar Allan Poe
Quotes of Author: Edgar Allan Poe
But see, amid the mimic routA crawling shape intrude!A blood-red thing that writhes from outThe scenic solitude!It writhes!- it writhes!- with mortal pangsThe mimes become its food,And seraphs sob at vermin fangsIn human gore imbued.Out- out are the lights- out all!And, over each quivering form,The curtain, a funeral pall,Comes down with the rush of a storm,While the angels, all pallid and wan,Uprising, unveiling, affir