The City in the Sea by Edgar Allen Poe Lo, Death has reared himself at Throne, in a strange city lying alone, far down within the dim west, where the good and the bad and the worst and the best have gone to their eternal rest. Their strines and palaces and towers tie each and towers and tremble not, resemble nothing that is ours. Around by lifting winds forgot, residedly beneath the sky, the melancholy waters lie, no rays from the holy heaven come down. On the long night time of that town, but light from out the lurid sea, streams up the turrets silently, streams up the pinnacles, far and free, up domes up spires, up kingly holes up fains up Babylon like walls, up shadowy long forgotten boughs, of sculptured ivy and stone flowers, up many and many a marvelous shrine, whose wreaths freezes into twine, the vile, the violet, and the vine, residedly beneath the sky, the melancholy waters lie, so blend the turrets and shadows there that all seem pendulous in air, while from a proud tower in the town death looks giganticly down, there open fames and gaping graves, you'll never with the luminous waves, but not the riches there that lie in each idol's diamond eye. Not the galley-jeweled dead tempted the waters from their bed for no ripples curl a lasse, along that wilderness of glass, no swellings tell that winds may be, upon some far off happier sea, no heavings hint that winds have been, on seas less hideously serene, but low, a stir is in the air, the wave there is movement there, as if the towers had thrust aside, in slightly sinking the dull tide, as if their tops had feebly given, avoid within the filmy heaven, the waves have now a red glow, the hours are breathing faint and low, and when amid no earthly moans, down, down that town shall settle heads, hell rising from a thousand throes shall do it, reverence.