Eldorado-bound you may have been — or you may have descended to the core of the earth, anticipating by fifty years those tales by E. R. Burroughs of Hyperborea and Pellucidar.       

          Well — here is another morning come calling at my window-pane; but I ignore it. Edgar, we destroy all sense of time; my daily routine lies in ruins. Now, in the dawn, I must seek my bed. I must sleep, Edgar. And sleep is as close as I come, for now, to extinction.

          Sleep, if you will, is my election night, my Baltimore polling station. It lays its hands upon me, bears me away to strange duties. I am drunk with fatigue. My bones ache as though I had been beaten by clubs and fists.

          But, what is it against the wall that brightly flickers? … A flame! … or no, a host of flames … brightly burning as tiger’s eyes … ah, burning …

 

 

 

 

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Epistle to Poe II     5

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