A keresés eredménye

Edgar Allen Poe

The winter in Boston was brief.He drank.Syllables
opened themselves one by one through the tunes of the room.Drops
Of alcohol.Who remembers the fallen rain in his
name?
He perused all night through the ancestral books and discov-
ered anything,no one knows what it may be,perhaps the
portrait of Annabel Lee.He sketched it out on the window pane car-
ried with shadow and the room dawned.
'But that matters little(says the black magic),the filter
merely decomposed earlier the horror in light,it did not
alter the loneliness of the days,that the night separates one
from the others always'.