The beacon that had been guiding my actions so brightly and well, had become suddenly extinguished; and I was left in a night of sorrow, as dark, as I should have deserved, had my great love been for crime instead of Lenore!
What had I done to be cursed with this, the greatest, misfortune Fate can bestow?
Where was my reward for the wear of body and soul, through long years of toil, and with that conscientious and steadfast spirit, the wise tell us, must surely win? What had I won? Only an immortal woe!
Thenceforth was I to be in truth, a “Rolling Stone,” for the only attraction that could have bound me to one place, or to anything—even to life itself—had for ever departed from my soul.
The world before me seemed not the one through which I had been hitherto straying. I seemed to have fallen from some bright field of manly strife, down, far down, into a dark and dreary land—there to wander friendless, unheeded and unloved, vainly seeking for something, I knew not what, and without the hope, or even the desire of finding it!
I could not blame Lenore. She had broken no faith with me: none had been plighted between us. I had not even talked to her of love.
Had she promised to await my return—had she ever confessed any affection for me—some indignation, or contempt for her perfidy, might have arisen to rescue me from my fearful reflections.
But I was denied even this slight source of consolation. There was nothing for which I could blame her—nothing to aid me in conquering the hopeless passion, that still burned within my soul.
I had been a fool to build such a vast superstructure of hope on a foundation so flimsy and fanciful.
It had fallen; and every faculty of my mind seemed crushed amid the ruins.