The boundaries which divide Life from Death are at best shadowy and vague. Who shall say where the one ends, and where the other begins?

The death of a beautiful woman is, unquestionably, the most poetical topic in the world.

For the moon never beams without bringing me dreams Of the beautiful Annabel Lee; And the stars never rise but I feel the bright eyes Of the beautiful Annabel Lee; And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side Of my darling- my darling- my life and my bride, In the sepulchre there by the sea, In her tomb by the sounding sea.

Sleep, those little slices of death — how I loathe them.

Even in the grave, all is not lost.

True, nervous, very, very dreadfully nervous I had been and am, but why will say that I am mad?! The disease had sharpened my senses, not destroyed, not dulled them. Above all was the sense of hearing acute.

Lord help my poor soul.

Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe, and forget this lost Lenore!

And the life of the ebony clock went out with that of the last of the gay. And the flames of the tripods expired. And Darkness and Decay and the Red Death held illimitable dominion over all.