By Edgar Allan Poe
During the dread reign of the Cholera in New York, I had accepted the invitation of a relative to spend a fortnight with him in the retirement of his cottage on the banks of the Hudson.
Near the close of an exceedingly warm day, I was sitting, book in hand, at an open window.
Uplifting my eyes from the page, they fell upon the naked face of the hill, and upon an object—upon some living monster of hideous conformation, which very rapidly made its way from the summit to the bottom…
— Read on theimaginativeconservative.org/2020/05/the-sphinx-edgar-allan-poe.html