Biographical Information

A Dream within a Dream
Annabel Lee
To One in Paradise
To Helen
The City in the Sea
The Raven

Given name: Edgar Allan
Family name: Poe
Birth date: 19 January 1809
Death date: 7 October 1849
Country: Massachusetts, U.S.A.
Language: English

Edgar Allan Poe, American poet, a master of the horror tale, credited with practically inventing the detective story.

Edgar Allan Poe was born on January 19, 1809 in Boston, Massachusetts, to parents who were itinerant actors. His father David Poe Jr. died probably in 1810 and his mother Elizabeth Hopkins Poe in 1811. Edgar was taken into the home of a Richmond merchant John Allan and brought up partly in England (1815-20), where he attended Manor School at Stoke Newington. Never legally adopted, Poe took Allan's name for his middle name.

Poe attended the University of Virginia (1826), but was expelled for not paying his gambling debts. This led to a quarrel with Allan, who later disowned him. In 1827 Poe joined the U.S. Army as a common soldier under assumed name and age. In 1830 Poe entered West Point and was dishonorably discharged next year, for intentional neglect of his duties.

Little is known about his life in this time, but in 1833 he lived in Baltimore with his father's sister. After winning a prize of $50 for the short story 'MS Found in a Bottle', he started a career as a staff member of various magazines, among others the Southern Literary Messenger in Richmond (1835-37), Burton's Gentleman's Magazine in Philadelphia (1839-40), and Graham's Magazine (1842-43). During these years he wrote some of his best-known stories.

In 1836 Poe married his 13-year-old cousin Virginia Clemm. She burst a blood vessel in 1842, and remained a virtual invalid until her death from tuberculosis five years later. After the death of his wife, Poe began to lose his struggle with drinking and drugs. He addressed the famous poem 'Annabel Lee' (1849) to her.

Poe's first collection, Tales of the Grotesque and Arabesque, appeared in 1840. It contained one of his most famous works, 'The Fall of the House of Usher'. During the early 1840s Poe's best-selling work was The Conchologist's First Book (1839). The dark poem of lost love, 'The Raven', brought Poe national fame, when it appeared in 1845. The Murders in the Rue Morgue(1841) and The Purloined Letter are among Poe's most famous detective stories. Poe was also one of the most prolific literary journalists in American history.

Poe suffered from bouts of depression and madness, and he attempted suicide in 1848. In September the following year he disappeared for three days after a drink at a birthday party and on his way to visit his new fiancée in Richmond. He turned up in a delirious condition in Baltimore gutter and died on October 7, 1849.

Take this kiss upon the brow!
And, in parting from you now,
Thus much let me avow
You are not wrong, who deem
That my days have been a dream;
Yet if hope has flown away
In a night, or in a day,
In a vision, or in none,
Is it therefore the less gone?
All that we see or seem
Is but a dream within a dream.

I stand amid the roar
Of a surftormented shore,
And I hold within my hand
Grains of the golden sand
How few! yet how they creep
Through my fingers to the deep,
While I weep while I weep!
O God! can I not grasp
Them with a tighter clasp?
O God! can I not save
One from the pitiless wave?
Is all that we see or seem
But a dream within a dream?.

It was many and many a year ago
In a kingdom by the sea
That a maiden there lived whom you may know
By the name of Annabel Lee;
And this maiden she lived with no other thought
Than to love and be loved by me.

I was a child and she was a child
In this kingdom by the sea;
But we loved with a love that was more than love
I and my Annabel Lee;
With a love that the winged seraphs of heaven
Coveted her and me.

And this was the reason that long ago
In this kingdom by the sea
A wind blew out of a cloud chilling
My beautiful Annabel Lee;
So that her highborn kinsman came
And bore her away from me
To shut her up in a sepulchre
In this kingdom by the sea.

The angels not half so happy in heaven
Went envying her and me,
Yes! that was the reason (as all men know
In this kingdom by the sea)
That the wind came out of the cloud by night
Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee.

But our love it was stronger by far than the love
Of those who were older than we
Of many far wiser than we
And neither the angels in heaven above
Nor the demons down under the sea
Can ever dissever my soul from the soul
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee.

For the moon never beams without bringing me dreams
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
And the stars never rise but I feel the bright eyes
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
And so all the nighttide I lie down by the side
Of my darling my darling my life and my bride
In the sepulchre there by the sea
In her tomb by the sounding sea.

Thou wast all that to me, love,
For which my soul did pine
A green isle in the sea, love,
A fountain and a shrine,
All wreathed with fairy fruits and flowers,
And all the flowers were mine.

Ah, dream too bright to last!
Ah, starry Hope! that didst arise
But to be overcast!
A voice from out the Future cries,
"On! on!" but o'er the Past
(Dim gulf!) my spirit hovering lies
Mute, motionless, aghast!.

For, alas! alas! me
The light of Life is o'er!
"No more no more no more"
(Such language holds the solemn sea
To the sands upon the shore)
Shall bloom the thunderblasted tree.

Or the stricken eagle soar!
And all my days are trances,
And all my nightly dreams
Are where thy grey eye glances,
And where thy footstep gleams
In what ethereal dances,
By what eternal streams.

Helen thy beauty is to me
Like those Nicean barks of yore
That gently o'er a perfumed sea
The weary wayworn wanderer bore
To his own native shore.

On desperate seas long wont to roam
Thy hyacinth hair thy classic face
Thy Naiad airs have brought me home
To the glory that was Greece
And the grandeur that was Rome.

Lo! in yon brilliant windowniche
How statuelike I see thee stand
The agate lamp within thy hand!
Ah Psyche from the regions which
Are Holy Land!.

Lo! Death has reared himself a throne
In a strange city lying alone
Far down within the dim West
Where the good and the bad and the worst and the best
Have gone to their eternal rest.
There shrines and palaces and towers
(Timeeaten towers that tremble not!)
Resemble nothing that is ours.
Around by lifting winds forgot
Resignedly beneath the sky
The melancholy waters lie.

No rays from the holy heaven come down
On the long nighttime of that town;
But light from out the lurid sea
Streams up the turrets silently
Gleams up the pinnacles far and free
Up domes up spires up kingly halls
Up fanes up Babylonlike walls
Up shadowy longforgotten bowers
Of sculptured ivy and stone flowers
Up many and many a marvellous shrine
Whose wreathed friezes intertwine
The viol the violet and the vine.
Resignedly beneath the sky
The melancholy waters lie.
So blend the turrets and shadows there
That all seem pendulous in air
While from a proud tower in the town
Death looks gigantically down.

There open fanes and gaping graves
Yawn level with the luminous waves;
But not the riches there that lie
In each idol's diamond eye
Not the gailyjewelled dead
Tempt the waters from their bed;
For no ripples curl alas!
Along that wilderness of glass
No swellings tell that winds may be
Upon some faroff happier sea
No heavings hint that winds have been
On seas less hideously serene.

But lo a stir is in the air!
The wave there is a movement there!
As if the towers had thrust aside
In slightly sinking the dull tide
As if their tops had feebly given
A void within the filmy Heaven.
The waves have now a redder glow
The hours are breathing faint and low
And when amid no earthly moans
Down down that town shall settle hence
Hell rising from a thousand thrones
Shall do it reverence.

Once upon a midnight dreary while I pondered weak and weary
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore
While I nodded nearly napping suddenly there came a tapping
As of some one gently rapping rapping at my chamber door.
"'Tis some visitor " I muttered "tapping at my chamber door
Only this and nothing more."

Ah distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December
And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.
Eagerly I wished the morrow; vainly I had sought to borrow
From my books surcease of sorrow sorrow for the lost Lenore
For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore
Nameless here for evermore.

And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtain
Thrilled me filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;
So that now to still the beating of my heart I stood repeating
"'Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door
Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door;
This it is and nothing more."

Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer
"Sir " said I "or Madam truly your forgiveness I implore;
But the fact is I was napping and so gently you came rapping
And so faintly you came tapping tapping at my chamber door
That I scarce was sure I heard you" here I opened wide the door;
Darkness there and nothing more.

Deep into that darkness peering long I stood there wondering fearing
Doubting dreaming dreams no mortals ever dared to dream before;
But the silence was unbroken and the stillness gave no token
And the only word there spoken was the whispered word "Lenore!"
This I whispered and an echo murmured back the word "Lenore!"
Merely this and nothing more.

Back into the chamber turning all my soul within me burning
Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before.
"Surely " said I "surely that is something at my window lattice:
Let me see then what thereat is and this mystery explore
Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore;
'Tis the wind and nothing more."

Open here I flung the shutter when with many a flirt and flutter
In there stepped a stately raven of the saintly days of yore;
Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he;
But with mien of lord or lady perched above my chamber door
Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door
Perched and sat and nothing more.

Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling
By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore.
"Though thy crest be shorn and shaven thou " I said "art sure no craven
Ghastly grim and ancient raven wandering from the Nightly shore
Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night's Plutonian shore!"
Quoth the Raven "Nevermore."

Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly
Though its answer little meaning little relevancy bore;
For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being
Ever yet was blest with seeing bird above his chamber door
Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door
With such name as "Nevermore."

But the raven sitting lonely on the placid bust spoke only
That one word as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.
Nothing further then he uttered not a feather then he fluttered
Till I scarcely more than muttered "other friends have flown before
On the morrow he will leave me as my hopes have flown before.
Then the bird said "Nevermore."

Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken
"Doubtless " said I "what it utters is its only stock and store
Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful Disaster
Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore
Till the dirges of his Hope that melancholy burden bore
Of 'Never nevermore'."

But the Raven still beguiling all my fancy into smiling
Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird and bust and door;
Then upon the velvet sinking I betook myself to linking
Fancy unto fancy thinking what this ominous bird of yore
What this grim ungainly ghastly gaunt and ominous bird of yore
Meant in croaking "Nevermore."

This I sat engaged in guessing but no syllable expressing
To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom's core;
This and more I sat divining with my head at ease reclining
On the cushion's velvet lining that the lamplight gloated o'er
But whose velvet violet lining with the lamplight gloating o'er
She shall press ah nevermore!

Then methought the air grew denser perfumed from an unseen censer
Swung by Seraphim whose footfalls tinkled on the tufted floor.
"Wretch " I cried "thy God hath lent thee by these angels he
hath sent thee
Respite respite and nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore!
Quaff oh quaff this kind nepenthe and forget this lost Lenore!"
Quoth the Raven "Nevermore."

"Prophet!" said I "thing of evil! prophet still if bird or devil!
Whether Tempter sent or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore
Desolate yet all undaunted on this desert land enchanted
On this home by horror haunted tell me truly I implore
Is there is there balm in Gilead? tell me tell me I implore!"
Quoth the Raven "Nevermore."

"Prophet!" said I "thing of evil prophet still if bird or devil!
By that Heaven that bends above us by that God we both adore
Tell this soul with sorrow laden if within the distant Aidenn
It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore
Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore."
Quoth the Raven "Nevermore."

"Be that word our sign in parting bird or fiend " I shrieked upstarting
"Get thee back into the tempest and the Night's Plutonian shore!
Leave no plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!
Leave my loneliness unbroken! quit the bust above my door!
Take thy beak from out my heart and take thy form from off my door!"
Quoth the Raven "Nevermore."

And the Raven never flitting still is sitting still is sitting
On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;
And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming
And the lamplight o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;
And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor
Shall be lifted nevermore!.