"The skies they were ashen and sober;
The leaves they were crisped and sere --
The leaves they were withering and sere:
It was night in the lonesome October
Of my most immemorial year..."
-- "Ulalume: A Ballad"
On October 7, 1849, Edgar A. Poe, wearily whispering, "Lord, help my poor soul," slipped from his life's short story and into the mystery of eternity. As every schoolchild has thought, how sadly fitting that he should take his leave in the month of Halloween and lengthening nights, at the time when the colors of autumn begin to turn gray, the vegetation withers beneath a canopy of massive, monstrous clouds and the whole earth seems to be solemnly slipping into the cold shroud of winter. Like countless others, Poe had a sad, short life; but his art has endured... and what better fate could any artist have?
