“Blood was its Avatar and its seal.”

“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, affirmThat the play is the tragedy, "Man,"And its hero the Conqueror Worm.”

“No murmur arose from its bed, and so gently it wandered along, that the pearly pebbles upon which we loved to gaze, far down within its bosom, stirred not at all, but lay in a motionless content, each in its own old station, shining on gloriously forever.”

“That the play is the tragedy, “Man,”And its hero, the Conqueror Worm.”

“The most expuisite beauty has strangeness in its proportions..." Ligeia”

“And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.”

“Beauty of whatever kind, in its supreme development, invariably excites the sensitive soul to tears.”