So my poem is damned, and immortal fame is not for me! I am nobody forever and ever. Intolerable fate! Snatching my hat, I dashed down the criticism, and rushed out into Broadway, where...

_At The Surf Inn_ List the harp in window wailing Stirred by fitful gales from sea: Shrieking up in mad crescendo— Dying down in plaintive key!

Already we are boldly launched upon the deep; but soon we shall be lost in its unshored, harbourless immensities. Ere that come to pass; ere the Pequod’s weedy hull rolls side by side w...

Ha! ha! ha! ha! hem! clear my throat!—I’ve been thinking over it ever since, and that ha, ha’s the final consequence. Why so? Because a laugh’s the wisest, easiest answer to all that’s ...

I and my chimney, two grey-headed old smokers, reside in the country. We are, I may say, old settlers here; particularly my old chimney, which settles more and more every day. Though I ...

Yon black man-of-war-hawk that whe… the light O’er the black ship’s white sky-s’… cloud to the sight, Have we low-flyers wings to ascend…

Healed of my hurt, I laud the inh… Yea, bless the Angels Four that t… For healed I am even by the pitil… Distilled in wholesome dew named r…

The pale Usher—threadbare in coat, heart, body, and brain; I see him now. He was ever dusting his old lexicons and grammars, with a queer handkerchief, mockingly embellished with all th...

A TIME ago, no matter how long precisely, I, an old man, removed from the country to the city, having become unexpected heir to a great old house in a narrow street of one of the lower ...

Upon waking next morning about daylight, I found Queequeg’s arm thrown over me in the most loving and affectionate manner. You had almost thought I had been his wife. The counterpane wa...

Mortally Wounded at Chancellorsvi… The Man who fiercest charged in f… Whose sword and prayer were long - Stonewall! Even him who stoutly stood for Wr…

While faith forecasts millennial y… Spite Europe’s embattled lines, Back to the Past one glance be ca… The Age of the Antonines! O summit of fate, O zenith of tim…

(October, 1864) Shoe the steed with silver That bore him to the fray, When he heard the guns at dawning– Miles away;

Persian, you rise Aflame from climes of sacrifice Where adulators sue, And prostrate man, with brow abase… Adheres to rites whose tenor trace…

The cavalry-camp lies on the slope Of what was late a vernal hill, But now like a pavement bare– An outpost in the perilous wilds Which ever are lone and still;