BLTC Press Titles

available for Kindle at

The Secret Doctrine, Volume I Cosmogenesis

H. P. Blavatsky

The Pictorial Key to the Tarot

Arthur Edward Waite

The Fairy Tale of the Green Snake and the Beautiful Lily

Johann Wolfgang von Goethe, Thomas Carlyle, Rudolf Steiner

Leaves of Grass

Walt Whitman

Edgar Allan Poe; a centenary tribute

by Edgar Allan Poe Memorial Association


Mrs. John C. Wrenshall

Mrs. Jordan Stabler

Miss Lydia Crane

Mrs. George K. Mcgaw

Mrs. Philip R. Uhler

Mrs. Alan P. Smith

Mrs. William M. Powell

Mrs. Sidney Turner

Miss Annie Hollins

Miss Lizette Woodworth Reese

Mrs. Laurence Turnbull

Miss Elizabeth Lester Mullin

Mrs. Frederic Tyson

Miss Nellie C. Williams

Miss Virginia Woodward Cloud


(Edgar Allan Poe)


Stone calls to stone, and roof to roof;

Dust unto dust;— Lo, in the midst, starry, aloof— Like white of April blown by last year's stalks

Across the gust—
A Presence walks.

It is the Shape of Song;
About it throng,

Great Others, and the first is Tears;
The ended years;

And every old and every lonely thing;

Old thirsts that to old hungers cry;

The poignancies of earth and sky;
The little sobbing of the spring.

He heeds them not;
They are forgot;

For him, behind this ancient wall,

The Best of all—

The short day sped;

A roof; a bed;

No years;

No tears.

Not his the strain
Of hill or lane;

Of orchards with their humble country musk, And bent old trees,

And companies of small black bees;

Of gardens at the dusk,
Where down the hush,
A thrush

His heartbreak spills;
Of daffodils

By farmhouse doors a windy sight,
A yellow gust driven down the light.

Nor his the note

That trumpeted of war,

Of ancient creed; Strange, innocent, remote

His reed

A wind along the hollows of an echoing shore Each day was but a pool within the grass,

A haunted space,

Where saw he as in glass,

But Wonder, with her dim, drowned face.

For Wonder was his kin,
His very twin;
Blood of his blood indeed,
And steadfast to his need;—

The ecst isies of cloud and sky;
The cry out in the dark;
The half lit spark
That lures from earth to star;
The fleeting footsteps far and far;

The trailing skirts so nigh, so nigh,
These drew he from their ghostly mesh
And made them flesh;
We reach dull hands, for we would know;
They fade; they go;
Yea, he and they together,
Into another weather.

A strange, autumnal verse;

Where griefs their griefs rehearse;

A flaw of rain within the air;

Black pools; the bough gone bare;

And red dead leaves and broken wall;

The flare of tempest driven behind them all.

Yet ever is his music such,
So rapt of touch,
It mellows all the ache,
And the heartbreak;

We cannot weep, but we stand wistful-eyed,

Like children at the eventide,

In some fast darkening spot,

Who hear their mother call, but see her not.

Oh, truest singer east or west!—
Not for the poor handful of hire,

But for the fury of the song,
The unescapable desire,

He sang his short life out, and it was best;

His wage was hunger; it was long

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