| 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 someone 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-- That 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 the darkness peering, long I stood there wondering fearing. Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal 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 an 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 a bove 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 marveled 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 blessed 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 outpoor. Nothing further then he uttered, not a feather then he fluttered-- Till I scarcely more then 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 utteres is it 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 the 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 lamp-light gloated o'er But whose velvet-violet lining with lamp-light gloating o'er She shall press, ah, nevermore! Then methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer Swung by seraphim whose foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor. "Wretch," I cried, "thy God has lent thee -- by these angels he hath sent thee Respite -- respite the 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 of devil! Whether Tempter sent, or whatever tempest tossed thee 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 of devil! By that Heaven that bends above us -- by that God we both adore-- Tell his 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 of parting, bird or fiend!" I shrieked, upstarting -- "Get thee back into the tempest and the Night's Plutonian shore! Leave no black 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 that is dreaming, And the lamp-light 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! |
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| The Raven |
| Edgar Allan Poe's "The Tell-Tale Heart" When reading a story of this nature, one must be reminded not to take horror in Poe too autobiographically. The narrator's "nervousness" is a frequently used device of Poe to establish tone and plausibility through heightened states of consciousness. "The Tell-Tale Heart" was first published in James Russell Lowell's The Pioneer in January 1843, and it appeared again in The Broadway Journal on August 23, 1845. |
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| This page is dedicated to Edgar Allen Poe, the Author that first introduced me to the Macabe , Horror and the Dark side of creative writing . |
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| A little bit about Poe... |
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| Edgar Allan Poe was born in Boston, Massachusetts in 1809. He was orphaned in 1811. Indeed, the theme of 'loss' which pervades much of his work can be linked to events of personal tragedy in his own life. He joined the army but was court-martialled for neglect of duty. Failing to make a living by writing he became addicted to alcohol. In 1847 he lost his wife. The life of Edgar A. Poe was checkered by an alternating series of successes and failures, of breakdowns and recoveries, of hopes engendered and dashed -- despite which (or, perhaps, because of which) he produced brilliant literature that assured his enduring stature as America's finest writer of psychological horror and as one of her best poets. In addition, Poe is credited with defining the modern short story, creating the first literary detective (Monsieur C. Auguste Dupin), and writing some of the first science fiction. |
| Poems |
| Short Stories |
| Other Poems by Poe |
| "The Black Cat," which first appeared in the United States Saturday Post (The Saturday Evening Post) on August 19, 1843, serves as a reminder for all of us. The capacity for violence and horror lies within each of us, no matter how docile and humane our dispositions might appear. |
| "The Masque of The Red Death" In writing a story of this nature, Poe would have considered such historical examples as the Black Death or the bubonic plague of the Middle Ages as well as the cholera epidemics that ravaged Philadelphia in the 1790's and Baltimore in his own lifetime. However, in this story, the plague takes the unusual form of a red death rather than a black one so that blood, the very substance of life, now becomes the mark of death. - By Martha Womack |
| "The Fall of the House of Usher," which first appeared in Burton's Gentleman's Magazine in September, 1839, and was reprinted in Poe's books of 1840 and 1845, is a detailed, symbolic account of the derangement and dissipation of an individual's personality. |
| "The Cask of Amontillado," which first appeared in Godey's Lady's Book in 1846, is a classic example of the use of an unreliable narrator. Montresor tells his tale of revenge smugly, as he invites the reader to applaud his cleverness much like the narrator of "The Tell-Tale Heart." By telling the story from Montresor's point of view, Poe forces the reader to look into the inner workings of a murderer's mind. |
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| The Fame of Edgar Allan Poe What is important today is that "... {Poe's} fame is now secure. The America in which he could find no adequate reward treasures every word he wrote, and in every city in which he lived, except the city of his birth, stands a lasting memorial to him. {Edgar Allan Poe} has been a world artist and through the translations of his writings he speaks today to every civilized country.... For today, nearly {one hundred and fifty} years since his death, {Edgar Allan Poe} remains not only the one American, but also the one writer in the English language, who was at once foremost in criticism, supreme in fiction, and in poetry destined to be immortal." Arthur Hobson Quinn |
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| More about E.A. Poe |
| The Raven dates from 1844, and presents us with an odd prophecy of a man who has 'lost' his love; 'the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels named Lenore'. Far from being a tale of 'horror', a view reinforced by various cinematic representations of the work of Poe, it is a poem of haunting lyric beauty; a poetic portrait of a man in the depths of despair. The Raven appears as a metaphor of memory, a constant reminder to the narrator of his loss, and of the impossibility of her return. |
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| Edgar Allan Poe is dead. He died in Baltimore the day before yesterday. This announcement will startle many,but few will be grieved by it. The poet was known, personally or by reputation, in all this country; he had readers in England, and in several of the states of Continental Europe; but he had few or no friends; and the regrets for his death will be suggested principally by the consideration that in him literary art has lost one of its most brilliant but erratic stars. (taken from the Evening Edition of the New York Tribune, October 9, 1849.) These are the words of Rufus Wilmot Griswold, a literary rival and secret enemy of Poe. |
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| "The Pit and The Pendulum" written |