Tales of mystery and imagination


Edgar Allan Poe


Collins Classics

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During the whole of a dull, dark, and soundless day in the autumn of the year, when the clouds hung oppressively low in the heavens, I have been passing alone through a singularly dreary tract of country; and found myself, as the shades of the evening drew on, within view of the melancholy House of Usher.
I know not how it was but, with the first glimpse of the building, a sense of insufferable gloom pervaded my spirit. I say insufferable; for the feeling was unrelieved by poetic and natural images of the desolate or terrible. I looked upon the scene before me with an utter depression of soul. There was an iciness, a sinking, a sickening of the heart, an unredeemed dreariness of thought which no goading of the imagination could torture into aught of the sublime.