Edgar Evertson Saltus

Edgar Evertson Saltus Poems

My heart a haunted manor is, where Time
Has tumbled noiselessly with mouldering hands:
At sunset ghosts troop out in sudden bands,
...

Edgar Evertson Saltus Biography

Edgar Evertson Saltus (October 8, 1855 – July 31, 1921) was an American writer known for his highly refined prose style. His works paralleled those by European decadent authors such as Joris-Karl Huysmans and Oscar Wilde. Edgar Saltus was born in New York City on October 8, 1855 to Francis Henry Saltus and his second wife, Eliza Evertson. After two semesters at Yale University, Saltus entered Columbia Law School in 1878, graduating with a law degree in 1880. He wrote two books of philosophy: The Philosophy of Disenchantment (1885) focused on pessimism and in particular the philosophy of Schopenhauer and Eduard Von Hartmann, while The Anatomy of Negation (1886) tried "to convey a tableau of anti-theism from Kapila to Leconte de Lisle". His elder half-brother Francis Saltus Saltus was a minor poet. Both brothers are buried in Sleepy Hollow Cemetery in Sleepy Hollow, New York. cclaimed by fellow writers in his day, Saltus fell into obscurity after his death. His novel The Paliser Case was adapted to film in 1920, and his novel Daughters of the Rich was filmed in 1923. A biography by Marie Saltus, Edgar Saltus: The Man was published in 1925. Edgar Saltus, a critical study by Claire Sprague, appeared in 1970.)

The Best Poem Of Edgar Evertson Saltus

Imeros

My heart a haunted manor is, where Time
Has tumbled noiselessly with mouldering hands:
At sunset ghosts troop out in sudden bands,
At noon 'tis vacant as a house of crime:

But when, unseen as sound, the night-winds climb
The higher keys with their unstilled demands,
It wakes to memories of other lands,
And thrills with echoes of enchanted rhyme.

Then, through the dreams and hopes of earlier years,
A fall of phantom footsteps on the stair
Approaches near, and ever nearer yet.
A voice rings through my life's deserted ways:
I turn to greet thee, Love. The empty air
Holds but the spectre of my own regret.

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