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The Fall of the house of Usher
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 had been passing alone, on horseback, through a singularly dreary
tract of country; and at length found myself, as the shades of 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 any of that half-pleasurable, because poetic
sentiment, with which the mind usually receives even the sternest
natural images of the desolate or terrible. I looked upon the scene
before me -- upon the mere house, and the simple landscape features
of the domain -- upon the blank walls -- upon the vacant eye-like
windows -- upon a few rank sedges -- and upon a few white trunks of
decayed trees -- with an utter depression of soul which I can compare
to no ea . . .
