And as years rolled away, and I gazed day after day upon
her holy, and mild, and eloquent face, and poured over
her maturing form, day after day did I discover new
points of resemblance in the child to her mother, the
melancholy and the dead. And hourly grew darker these
shadows of similitude, and more full, and more definite,
and more perplexing, and more hideously terrible in
their aspect. For that her smile was like her mother's
I could bear; but then I shuddered at its too perfect
identity, that her eyes were like Morella's I could
endure; but then they, too, often looked down into the
depths of my soul with Morella's own intense and
bewildering meaning. And in the contour of the high
forehead, and in the ringlets of the silken hair, and
in the wan fingers which buried themselves therein,
and in the sad musical tones of her speech, and above
all -- oh, above all, in the phrases and expressions
of the dead on the lips of the loved and the living,
I found food for consuming thought and horror, for a
worm that would not die.

Edgar Allan Poe, Morella

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