Poe: Poems (Everyman's Library Pocket Poets)
Edgar Allan Poe
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Poe's poems have been memorized and recited by millions. Among his best-loved works are "The Raven" with its hypnotic chant of "nevermore, " and the sensuous and lyrical "Annabel Lee." This collection includes all of Poe's most popular rhymes.
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 here! — That I brought a dread burden down here — On this night, of all nights in the year, Ah, what demon hath tempted me here? Well I know, now, this dim lake of Auber — This misty mid region of Weir: — Well I know, now, this dank tarn of Auber — This ghoul-haunted woodland of Weir.” Said we, then — the two, then — “Ah, can it Have been that the
unfurl’d Never his fairy wing o’er fairier world! Dim was its little disk, and angel eyes Alone could see the phantom in the skies, When first Al Aaraaf knew her course to be Headlong thitherward o’er the starry sea — But when its glory swell’d upon the sky, As glowing Beauty’s bust beneath man’s eye, We paus’d before the heritage of men, And thy star trembled — as doth Beauty then!” Thus, in discourse, the lovers whiled away The night that waned and waned and brought no day. They
intoxication are its less holy pleasures — the price of which, to those souls who make choice of “Al Aaraaf” as their residence after life, is final death and annihilation. 27 There be tears of perfect moan Wept for thee in Helicon. — Milton. 28 It was entire in 1687 — the most elevated spot in Athens. 29 Shadowing more beauty in their airy brows Than have the white breasts of the Queen of Love. — Marlowe. 30 Pennon — for pinion. — Milton. TAMERLANE Kind solace in a dying hour! Such,
The modern epic is, of the supposititious ancient model, but an inconsiderate and blindfold imitation. But the day of these artistic anomalies is over. If, at any time, any very long poem were popular in reality, which I doubt, it is at least clear that no very long poem will ever be popular again. That the extent of a poetical work is, cæteris paribus, the measure of its merit, seems undoubtedly, when we thus state it, a proposition sufficiently absurd — yet we are indebted for it to the
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. “DEEP IN EARTH” Deep in earth my love is lying And I must weep alone. THE CONQUEROR WORM Lo! ’tis a gala night Within the lonesome latter years! An angel throng, bewinged, bedight In veils, and drowned in tears, Sit in a theatre, to see A play of hopes and fears, While the orchestra breathes fitfully The music of the spheres.