Imagery:
The dog was steadily gaining on his victim. But, O Soul of the New World, the man had his bow and arrow with him as he swam.
Poe was not ‘a fault of nature,’ ‘a find for French eyes,’ ripe but unaccountable, as through our woolyheadedness we’ve sought to designate him, but a genius intimately shaped by his locality and time.
In the American Grain