Poems List

The happiest day—the happiest hour My sear’d and blighted heart hath known, The highest hope of pride and power, I feel hath flown.

The Happiest Day [1827], st. 1

1
A short story must have a single mood and every sentence must build towards it.
1

To The River --

To The River --

Fair river! in thy bright, clear flow
Of crystal, wandering water,
Thou art an emblem of the glow
Of beauty- the unhidden heartThe
playful maziness of art
In old Alberto's daughter;

But when within thy wave she looksWhich
glistens then, and tremblesWhy,
then, the prettiest of brooks
Her worshipper resembles;
For in his heart, as in thy stream,
Her image deeply liesHis
heart which trembles at the beam
Of her soul-searching eyes.
216

To Marie Louise (Shew)

To Marie Louise (Shew)

Of all who hail thy presence as the morning-
Of all to whom thine absence is the night-
The blotting utterly from out high heaven
The sacred sun- of all who, weeping, bless thee
Hourly for hope- for life- ah! above all,
For the resurrection of deep-buried faith
In Truth- in Virtue- in Humanity-
Of all who, on Despair's unhallowed bed
Lying down to die, have suddenly arisen
At thy soft-murmured words, 'Let there be light!'
At the soft-murmured words that were fulfilled
In the seraphic glancing of thine eyes-
Of all who owe thee most- whose gratitude
Nearest resembles worship- oh, remember
The truest- the most fervently devoted,
And think that these weak lines are written by him-
By him who, as he pens them, thrills to think
His spirit is communing with an angel's.
341

To One Departed

To One Departed

Seraph! thy memory is to me
Like some enchanted far-off isle
In some tumultuous sea -
Some ocean vexed as it may be
With storms; but where, meanwhile,
Serenest skies continually
Just o'er that one bright island smile.
For 'mid the earnest cares and woes
That crowd around my earthly path,
(Sad path, alas, where grows
Not even one lonely rose!)
My soul at least a solace hath
In dreams of thee; and therein knows
An Eden of bland repose.
295

To Helen - 1848

To Helen - 1848

I saw thee once- once only- years ago:
I must not say how many- but not many.
It was a July midnight; and from out
A full-orbed moon, that, like thine own soul, soaring,
Sought a precipitate pathway up through heaven,
There fell a silvery-silken veil of light,
With quietude, and sultriness, and slumber,
Upon the upturned faces of a thousand
Roses that grew in an enchanted garden,
Where no wind dared to stir, unless on tiptoe-
Fell on the upturn'd faces of these roses
That gave out, in return for the love-light,
Their odorous souls in an ecstatic death-
Fell on the upturn'd faces of these roses
That smiled and died in this parterre, enchanted
By thee, and by the poetry of thy presence.
Clad all in white, upon a violet bank
I saw thee half reclining; while the moon
Fell on the upturn'd faces of the roses,
And on thine own, upturn'd- alas, in sorrow!


Was it not Fate, that, on this July midnight-
Was it not Fate, (whose name is also Sorrow,)
That bade me pause before that garden-gate,
To breathe the incense of those slumbering roses?
No footstep stirred: the hated world an slept,
Save only thee and me. (Oh, Heaven!- oh, God!
How my heart beats in coupling those two words!)
Save only thee and me. I paused- I looked-
And in an instant all things disappeared.
(Ah, bear in mind this garden was enchanted!)


The pearly lustre of the moon went out:
The mossy banks and the meandering paths,
The happy flowers and the repining trees,
Were seen no more: the very roses' odors
Died in the arms of the adoring airs.
All- all expired save thee- save less than thou:
Save only the divine light in thine eyes-
Save but the soul in thine uplifted eyes.
I saw but them- they were the world to me!
I saw but them- saw only them for hours,
Saw only them until the moon went down.
What wild heart-histories seemed to he enwritten
Upon those crystalline, celestial spheres!
How dark a woe, yet how sublime a hope!
How silently serene a sea of pride!
How daring an ambition; yet how deep-
How fathomless a capacity for love!


But now, at length, dear Dian sank from sight,
Into a western couch of thunder-cloud;



And thou, a ghost, amid the entombing trees
Didst glide away. Only thine eyes remained;
They would not go- they never yet have gone;
Lighting my lonely pathway home that night,
They have not left me (as my hopes have) since;
They follow me- they lead me through the years.
They are my ministers- yet I their slave.
Their office is to illumine and enkindle-
My duty, to be saved by their bright light,
And purified in their electric fire,
And sanctified in their elysian fire.
They fill my soul with Beauty (which is Hope),
And are far up in Heaven- the stars I kneel to
In the sad, silent watches of my night;
While even in the meridian glare of day
I see them still- two sweetly scintillant
Venuses, unextinguished by the sun!
273

To M--

To M--

O! I care not that my earthly lot
Hath little of Earth in it,
That years of love have been forgot
In the fever of a minute:

I heed not that the desolate
Are happier, sweet, than I,
But that you meddle with my fate
Who am a passer by.

It is not that my founts of bliss
Are gushing- strange! with tearsOr
that the thrill of a single kiss
Hath palsied many years


'Tis not that the flowers of twenty springs
Which have wither'd as they rose
Lie dead on my heart-strings
With the weight of an age of snows.

Not that the grass- O! may it thrive!
On my grave is growing or grownBut
that, while I am dead yet alive
I cannot be, lady, alone.
299

To F--S S. O--D

To F--S S. O--D

Thou wouldst be loved?- then let thy heart
From its present pathway part not!
Being everything which now thou art,
Be nothing which thou art not.
So with the world thy gentle ways,
Thy grace, thy more than beauty,
Shall be an endless theme of praise,
And love- a simple duty.
270

To -- -- --. Ulalume: A Ballad

To -- -- --. Ulalume: A Ballad

The skies they were ashen and sober;
The leaves they were crisped and sereThe
leaves they were withering and sere;

It was night in the lonesome October
Of my most immemorial year;
It was hard by the dim lake of Auber,
In the misty mid region of WeirIt
was down by the dank tarn of Auber,
In the ghoul-haunted woodland of Weir.

Here once, through an alley Titanic,
Of cypress, I roamed with my SoulOf
cypress, with Psyche, my Soul.


There were days when my heart was volcanic
As the scoriac rivers that rollAs
the lavas that restlessly roll

Their sulphurous currents down Yaanek
In the ultimate climes of the poleThat
groan as they roll down Mount Yaanek
In the realms of the boreal pole.

Our talk had been serious and sober,
But our thoughts they were palsied and sereOur
memories were treacherous and sere


For we knew not the month was October,
And we marked not the night of the year(
Ah, night of all nights in the year!)

We noted not the dim lake of Auber(
Though once we had journeyed down here),
Remembered not the dank tarn of Auber,
Nor the ghoul-haunted woodland of Weir.

And now, as the night was senescent,
And star-dials pointed to mornAs
the star-dials hinted of morn


At the end of our path a liquescent
And nebulous lustre was born,
Out of which a miraculous crescent


Arose with a duplicate hornAstarte's
bediamonded crescent
Distinct with its duplicate horn.


And I said- 'She is warmer than Dian:
She rolls through an ether of sighsShe
revels in a region of sighs:


She has seen that the tears are not dry on
These cheeks, where the worm never dies,

And has come past the stars of the Lion,
To point us the path to the skiesTo
the Lethean peace of the skies


Come up, in despite of the Lion,
To shine on us with her bright eyes



Come up through the lair of the Lion,
With love in her luminous eyes.'


But Psyche, uplifting her finger,
Said- 'Sadly this star I mistrustHer
pallor I strangely mistrust:


Oh, hasten!- oh, let us not linger!
Oh, fly!- let us fly!- for we must.'
In terror she spoke, letting sink her
Wings until they trailed in the dust


In agony sobbed, letting sink her
Plumes till they trailed in the dustTill
they sorrowfully trailed in the dust.


I replied- 'This is nothing but dreaming:
Let us on by this tremulous light!
Let us bathe in this crystalline light!


Its Sybilic splendor is beaming
With Hope and in Beauty to-night:See!-
it flickers up the sky through the night!

Ah, we safely may trust to its gleaming,
And be sure it will lead us aright


We safely may trust to a gleaming
That cannot but guide us aright,
Since it flickers up to Heaven through the night.'

Thus I pacified Psyche and kissed her,
And tempted her out of her gloomAnd
conquered her scruples and gloom;


And we passed to the end of the vista,
But were stopped by the door of a tombBy
the door of a legended tomb;

And I said- 'What is written, sweet sister,
On the door of this legended tomb?'
She replied- 'Ulalume- Ulalume'
Tis the vault of thy lost Ulalume!'


Then my heart it grew ashen and sober
As the leaves that were crisped and sereAs
the leaves that were withering and sere


And I cried- 'It was surely October
On this very night of last year
That I journeyed- I journeyed down hereThat
I brought a dread burden down hereOn
this night of all nights in the year,
Ah, what demon has tempted me here?

Well I know, now, this dim lake of AuberThis
misty mid region of WeirWell
I know, now, this dank tarn of Auber,
This ghoul-haunted woodland of Weir.'
285

To --

To --

The bowers whereat, in dreams, I see
The wantonest singing birds,
Are lips- and all thy melody
Of lip-begotten words


Thine eyes, in Heaven of heart enshrined,
Then desolately fall,
O God! on my funereal mind
Like starlight on a pall


Thy heart- thy heart!- I wake and sigh,
And sleep to dream till day
Of the truth that gold can never buyOf
the baubles that it may.
225

Comments (0)

Log in to post a comment.

NoComments

Identification and basic context

Edgar Allan Poe was an American writer, poet, editor, and literary critic, celebrated for his masterful contributions to the genres of mystery, the macabre, and Gothic literature. He is also credited with pioneering detective fiction and crafting early examples of science fiction. Poe's writing is deeply imbued with the spirit of American Romanticism, often exploring themes of death, loss, the supernatural, and the darker aspects of the human psyche. His unique narrative style and thematic preoccupations have left an indelible mark on literature worldwide. He wrote exclusively in English.

Childhood and education

Poe's childhood was marked by tragedy and instability. Orphaned at a young age, he was taken in by the Allan family in Richmond, Virginia, though he never formally adopted their surname. His upbringing, while providing him with education, was often strained by complex familial relationships and financial difficulties. He attended the University of Virginia and later West Point, but his academic pursuits were often cut short by his personal struggles and a developing literary ambition. His early readings exposed him to the Gothic literature and Romantic poetry that would profoundly influence his own creative output.

Literary trajectory

Poe's literary career began with poetry, but he soon found his greatest success in short stories. His early works often graved with themes of loss and melancholy, reflecting his personal experiences. He worked as an editor for various literary magazines, where he not only published his own works but also developed a reputation as a sharp and influential critic. His contributions to periodicals were instrumental in shaping American literary tastes and in advancing the development of the short story as a literary form. His trajectory saw him move from romantic lyricism to the darker, more psychologically complex narratives for which he is now most famous.

Works, style, and literary characteristics

Poe's most famous works include the poems "The Raven," "Annabel Lee," and "Lenore," and the short stories "The Tell-Tale Heart," "The Fall of the House of Usher," "The Murders in the Rue Morgue," and "The Pit and the Pendulum." His dominant themes are death, decay, madness, guilt, the supernatural, and the human capacity for both extreme beauty and terror. Poe's style is characterized by its meticulous craftsmanship, its intense atmosphere, and its psychological realism, even when dealing with fantastical elements. He was a master of creating suspense and dread, employing vivid imagery and a carefully controlled rhythm. His poetic devices often emphasize musicality and rhyme, contributing to the hypnotic quality of his verse. The tone of his work is frequently melancholic, terrifying, or elegiac. Poe's poetic voice is often deeply personal, exploring profound emotional states and existential anxieties. His language is precise and evocative, with a rich vocabulary that enhances the unsettling mood. He is renowned for his innovations in narrative structure and his creation of unforgettable, often tormented, protagonists. His association with the Gothic and Romantic movements is clear, but his work also presaged elements of symbolism and modernism.

Cultural and historical context

Poe lived during a period of significant cultural and intellectual ferment in the United States, known as the American Romantic period. He was part of a literary scene that included contemporaries like Nathaniel Hawthorne and Ralph Waldo Emerson, though his work often stood apart in its darker inclinations. Poe engaged with the intellectual debates of his time, particularly concerning the nature of genius, the role of art, and the exploration of the subconscious. His often-unconventional views and critical stance sometimes placed him at odds with the literary establishment, yet his influence grew steadily.

Personal life

Poe's personal life was profoundly shaped by loss and hardship. The death of his young wife, Virginia Clemm, had a particularly devastating impact on him and is often seen as a direct influence on his preoccupation with themes of death and mourning. His relationships were often marked by intensity and tragedy. He struggled with financial instability and issues with alcohol throughout his life, which contributed to his personal crises. Despite these challenges, he maintained a fierce dedication to his literary craft.

Recognition and reception

Poe gained a degree of recognition during his lifetime, particularly for his critical essays and his more accessible poems. However, it was posthumously that his work achieved its true and lasting fame. "The Raven," in particular, became an instant sensation and cemented his place in literary history. Critical reception of his work has evolved over time, with initial skepticism giving way to profound appreciation for his originality, his psychological depth, and his influence on subsequent literary movements. He is now considered a foundational figure in American literature.

Influences and legacy

Poe was influenced by European Gothic literature, the works of Samuel Taylor Coleridge, and the broader Romantic movement. His legacy is immense and far-reaching. He is considered the inventor of the detective story, with "The Murders in the Rue Morgue" serving as a blueprint for the genre. His influence extends to horror, science fiction, and symbolist poetry. Countless writers, including Arthur Conan Doyle, H.P. Lovecraft, and Charles Baudelaire, have acknowledged Poe's impact on their work. His stories and poems continue to be translated, adapted, and studied globally, solidifying his position as one of the most important figures in world literature.

Interpretation and critical analysis

Poe's work is ripe for interpretation, often analyzed for its exploration of psychological states, the subconscious, and the nature of beauty and terror. His stories are frequently examined for their narrative techniques and their uncanny ability to evoke dread and suspense. Critical debates often center on the biographical elements that may have informed his writing and the extent to which his work represents a dark romanticism or a proto-modernist sensibility.

Curiosities and lesser-known aspects

Poe was known for his sharp critical intellect and his often controversial reviews, which he delivered with unsparing honesty. He was also a man of intense emotions and profound sensitivity. Anecdotes about his life reveal a passionate artist struggling against the constraints of his time and his own personal demons. His writing habits were often characterized by intense periods of creation, fueled by strong coffee and a meticulous attention to detail.

Death and memory

Edgar Allan Poe died under mysterious circumstances in Baltimore, Maryland. The exact cause of his death remains a subject of speculation and debate among historians and literary scholars. His posthumous fame has far surpassed any recognition he received during his life, and his memory is celebrated through the enduring power of his literary creations, which continue to captivate and disturb readers around the world.