Lord, help me soul
They found me wandering in the street in clothes that didn't fit me. My end could have been written by myself, dark and uncertain. As I lay in the dim light of the hospital, dripping with feverish sweat, I had repeated: Reynolds, Reynolds! Then I went to that land, which had always been true to me. Lord, help my soul, if you help the wicked, and you will. Poet´s note. Edgar Allan Poe was a brillian novelist.