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Hi Julia,

This was a very interesting Padlet post to read. I thought the Alice in Wonderland comparison was a good take. I also think in regard to the sorrow trope you mentioned that it's pretty sad when you think about how lonely and heartbroken one must feel when they lose their loved one, let alone the love of their life.

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"By that Heaven that bends above us" (Poe)
"By these angels he hath sent thee" (Poe)
"If Heaven and Hell both decide that they both are satisfied" (Song)

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Both of these gothic texts have a repetitive theme to them which builds suspense for the audience. In the Raven, it was the "Nevermore" from the raven; along with words such as "tapping," and "rapping." In the song, it repeats in the chorus, "If there's no one beside you when your soul embarks, then I'll follow you into the dark."

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Both literary works suggest experiencing sorrow and misery after losing a loved one. For The Raven, it was the narrator calling out to his maiden, Lenore. All signs lead to the narrator going mad from this heartbreak. This is similar to the song as the singer says he will follow his dead loved one into the dark, simply because he will not be able to live this life without them.

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"White roses sweet scented and growing" (Whitman) can relate to the White Queen in Alice and Wonderland who symbolizes refuge and hope

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"Mark the relief and escape" (Whitman) summarizes the story of Alice's journey since she is on a mission to escape from the eery world she stumbled upon

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I Will Follow You Into The Dark by Death Cab for Cutie

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I Will Follow You Into The Dark by Death Cab for Cutie

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Death Cab For Cutie - I Will Follow You Into The Dark +Lyrics

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Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,

Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore-

While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,

As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.

"'Tis some visitor," I muttered, "tapping at my chamber door-

Only this and nothing more."

Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December;

And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.

Eagerly I wished the morrow;-vainly I had sought to borrow

From my books surcease of sorrow-sorrow for the lost Lenore-

For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore-

Nameless here for evermore.

And the silken, sad, uncertain rustling of each purple curtain

Thrilled me-filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;

So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating

"'Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door-

Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door;-

This it is and nothing more."

Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,

"Sir," said I, "or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;

But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,

And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door,

That I scarce was sure I heard you"-here I opened wide the door;-

Darkness there and nothing more.

Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,

Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before;

But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token,

And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, "Lenore?"

This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, "Lenore!"-

Merely this and nothing more.

Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,

Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before.

"Surely," said I, "surely that is something at my window lattice;

Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore-

Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore;-

'Tis the wind and nothing more!"

Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,

In there stepped a stately Raven of the saintly days of yore;

Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he;

But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door-

Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door-

Perched, and sat, and nothing more.

Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,

By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore,

"Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou," I said, "art sure no craven,

Ghastly grim and ancient Raven wandering from the Nightly shore-

Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night's Plutonian shore!"

Quoth the Raven "Nevermore."

Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,

Though its answer little meaning-little relevancy bore;

For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being

Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door-

Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door,

With such name as "Nevermore."

But the Raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only

That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.

Nothing farther then he uttered-not a feather then he fluttered-

Till I scarcely more than muttered "Other friends have flown before-

On the morrow he will leave me, as my Hopes have flown before."

Then the bird said "Nevermore."

Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,

"Doubtless," said I, "what it utters is its only stock and store

Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful Disaster

Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore-

Till the dirges of his Hope that melancholy burden bore

But the Raven still beguiling all my fancy into smiling,

Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird, and bust and door;

Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking

Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore-

What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore

Meant in croaking "Nevermore."

This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing

To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom's core;

This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining

On the cushion's velvet lining that the lamp-light gloated o'er,

But whose velvet-violet lining with the lamp-light gloating o'er,

She shall press, ah, nevermore!

Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer

Swung by Seraphim whose foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor.

"Wretch," I cried, "thy God hath lent thee-by these angels he hath sent thee

Respite-respite and nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore;

Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe and forget this lost Lenore!"

Quoth the Raven "Nevermore."

"Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil!-prophet still, if bird or devil!-

Whether Tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,

Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted-

On this home by Horror haunted-tell me truly, I implore-

Is there- is there balm in Gilead?-tell me-tell me, I implore!"

Quoth the Raven "Nevermore."

"Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil!-prophet still, if bird or devil!

By that Heaven that bends above us-by that God we both adore-

Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn,

It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore-

Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore."

Quoth the Raven "Nevermore."

"Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!" I shrieked, upstarting-

"Get thee back into the tempest and the Night's Plutonian shore!

Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!

Leave my loneliness unbroken!-quit the bust above my door!

Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!"

Quoth the Raven "Nevermore."

And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting

On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;

And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming,

And the lamp-light o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;

And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor

Shall be lifted-nevermore!

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The Raven by Edgar Allan Poe | Poetry Foundation

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Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,

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Tumble down the rabbit hole with Alice for a fantastical adventure with the Mad Hatter (Johnny Depp) and an extraordinary cast of characters. Inviting and magical, Alice In Wonderland is an imaginative new twist on one of the most beloved stories of all time.

Tumble down the rabbit hole with Alice in this imaginative twist on one of the most beloved stories of all time. Alice (Mia Wasikowska), now 19 years old, returns to the whimsical world she first entered as a child and embarks on a journey to discover her true destiny. This Wonderland is a world beyond imagination and unlike anything ever seen before. The extraordinary characters come to life richer and more colorful than ever. There's the Mad Hatter (Johnny Depp), the White Queen (Anne Hathaway), the Red Queen (Helena Bonham Carter), the White Rabbit (Michael Sheen) and more. Contains tobacco depictions.

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Watch Alice in Wonderland | Full Movie | Disney+

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Tumble down the rabbit hole with Alice for a fantastical adventure with the Mad Hatter (Johnny Depp) and an extraordinary cast of characters. Inviting and magical, Alice In Wonderland is an imaginative new twist on one of the most beloved stories of all time.

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Section 49; Song of Myself by Walt Whitman

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Section 49; Song of Myself by Walt Whitman

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In this section, Whitman reprises another key theme of "Song of Myself": death and life are an endless process, inseparable from each other. We move here between two French words that echo each other: "accoucheur" and "debouch." "Accoucheur" was a term used in Whitman's time for obstetricians or midwives, and "debouch" has associations with both birth and speaking: it means, literally, "out of the mouth" and has come to suggest any emergence from a tight, constricted space into an open area (a river thus "debouches" into a sea). In the scene of birth, the midwife guides us through the "flexible doors" of the womb and birth canal into the world, but we realize the doors of birth are also the doors of death: we exit the womb only to eventually enter the grave; identity forms and then it perishes. So Whitman offers us surprisingly lovely images of the active corpse. Yes, the poet tells us, the corpse becomes "manure," but that manure grows new life, and, when we "smell the white roses sweet-scented and growing," we need to remember they are not just growing out of death but are composed of death (any new plant's leafing happens only because of the "leavings of many deaths"). We shock ourselves into the realization that this body of ours is in fact the "leavings of many deaths"; each of us exists only because of those deaths, and each of us has life only because "life"-whatever this animating force that we call life is-is perpetually transferred: there is an eternal procession of "promotions" (etymologically, a "moving forward"), as matter is continually re-formed and put in motion by what we call "soul."

Then Whitman performs the notable feat of imagining himself as the corpse, still with the means of "reaching," as his dispersed atoms now find themselves occupying new life forms as they "reach to the leafy lips" and "reach to the polish'd breasts of melons." There is an eroticism to death here: the decaying body interpenetrates with the sexualized and always fertile landscape. Just as back in Section 5, Whitman imagined that his soul "reach'd till you felt my beard, and reach'd till you held my feet" (as the soul charged up the material body), so here is there an explicit and yet obscure sex act, this time between death and life, as death itself energizes and animates life. By the end of the section, Whitman associates the night and the cold, lifeless moon with death but then affirms that the only reason we can even see the moon is that it reflects daylight, warmth, and life. Moon and sun, darkness and day, death and life are the endless reflected cyclings of a unitary, uninterrupted reality.

So, in the final few lines, the act of the accoucheur is repeated: in a dark swamp scene, we can hear the "moaning gibberish" of the "turbid pool" that is constantly breaking down old forms and generating new ones. Now birth and identity become an "ascent" from the moon and the night into the daylight of identity, into perception, as we exit from a dark place into the openness of existence, gaining our identity "from the offspring great or small." In the final line, Whitman underscores the oneness of the endless process of birth and death by suggesting that any new birth comes from previous "offspring" who have themselves lived and died so that we (the current "offspring") may occupy the "steady and central" realm of consciousness and life in the ongoing present moment. Life, which is always only contained in the single steady moment of the present, is a continual "springing off of" (and out of) death. So "death" is merely another word for former life-or, more precisely, another word for forms of life that have now sprung into other forms of life, endlessly transferring it into the always emerging physical Now.

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In this section, Whitman reprises another key theme of "Song of Myself": death and life are an endless process, inseparable from each other. We move here between two French words that echo each other: "accoucheur" and "debouch."

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"Exquisite flexible doors" (Whitman) relates to when Alice walks into different sized doors when she changes shape