Edgar allan poe poems | Edgar allan poe famous poems

The Poetic Genius of Edgar Allan Poe

Edgar Allan Poe, one of the most influential literary figures of the 19th century, is best known for his dark, haunting poetry. His works are deeply emotional, often exploring themes of love, death, beauty, and the supernatural. Though he wrote both prose and poetry, it is his verse—especially poems like The Raven, Annabel Lee, and The Bells—that cemented his legacy as a master of lyrical melancholy and musical language.

Poe’s poetry is characterized by its musicality, meticulous structure, and emotional intensity. He believed that poetry should aim to create a specific emotional effect, a philosophy he explained in his essay The Philosophy of Composition. According to Poe, a poem should be short enough to be read in one sitting and should aim to evoke a singular, powerful emotion—most often melancholy. This belief is clearly evident in his most famous poem, The Raven, where the repeated refrain "Nevermore" and the dark imagery build a mood of despair and madness.

One of Poe’s favorite themes was the death of a beautiful woman, which he considered the most poetic topic in literature. This theme recurs in poems like Annabel Lee, Lenore, and To One in Paradise. In Annabel Lee, for example, Poe writes of a love so deep that even the angels are jealous, and death cannot break its bond. The poem, written shortly before Poe’s own death, is widely believed to be inspired by the passing of his young wife, Virginia.

Another hallmark of Poe’s poetry is his use of sound devices such as rhyme, alliteration, repetition, and internal rhyme. In The Bells, Poe mimics the sound of different bells—silver, golden, brazen, and iron—through rhythmic and phonetic choices, showing his mastery over language's musical qualities. The poem becomes an auditory experience as much as a visual or emotional one.

Though his themes are often somber, Poe’s craftsmanship is precise and deliberate. His meter and rhyme schemes are carefully chosen to enhance the emotional impact. In The Raven, the trochaic octameter and internal rhymes create a hypnotic effect that mirrors the narrator’s descent into madness.

Critics during Poe’s lifetime were often divided about his work. Some dismissed it as overly emotional or melodramatic, while others admired his originality and skill. Over time, however, Poe’s poetry has gained immense respect for its innovation, emotional depth, and influence on both American and world literature.

Poe’s poetic legacy continues to influence writers, musicians, and artists. His ability to blend beauty with darkness, sound with meaning, and logic with emotion makes his poetry timeless. Whether through the mournful refrain of The Raven or the tender sorrow of Annabel Lee, Edgar Allan Poe's poetry invites readers into a world where love and death are inseparable, and where emotion is elevated to an art form.

The Raven

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 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 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 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 outpour.
    Nothing farther 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 lamp-light gloated o’er,
But whose velvet-violet lining with the 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 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 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’s 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! 

Alone

From childhood's hour I have not been

As others were; I have not seen

As others saw; I could not bring

My passions from a common spring.

From the same source I have not taken

My sorrow; I could not awaken

My heart to joy at the same tone;

And all I loved, I loved alone.

Then- in my childhood, in the dawn

Of a most stormy life- was drawn

From every depth of good and ill

The mystery which binds me still:

From the torrent, or the fountain,

From the red cliff of the mountain,

From the sun that round me rolled

In its autumn tint of gold,

From the lightning in the sky

As it passed me flying by,

From the thunder and the storm,

And the cloud that took the form

(When the rest of Heaven was blue)

Of a demon in my view.

Fairy-Land

Dim vales- and shadowy floods-

         And cloudy-looking woods,

         Whose forms we can't discover

         For the tears that drip all over!

         Huge moons there wax and wane-

         Again- again- again-

         Every moment of the night-

         Forever changing places-

         And they put out the star-light

         With the breath from their pale faces.

         About twelve by the moon-dial,

         One more filmy than the rest

         (A kind which, upon trial,

         They have found to be the best)

         Comes down- still down- and down,

         With its centre on the crown

         Of a mountain's eminence,

         While its wide circumference

         In easy drapery falls

         Over hamlets, over halls,

         Wherever they may be-

         O'er the strange woods- o'er the sea-

         Over spirits on the wing-

         Over every drowsy thing-

         And buries them up quite

         In a labyrinth of light-

         And then, how deep!- O, deep!

         Is the passion of their sleep.

         In the morning they arise,

         And their moony covering

         Is soaring in the skies,

         With the tempests as they toss,

         Like- almost anything-

         Or a yellow Albatross.

         They use that moon no more

         For the same end as before-

         Videlicet, a tent-

         Which I think extravagant:

         Its atomies, however,

         Into a shower dissever,

         Of which those butterflies

         Of Earth, who seek the skies,

         And so come down again,

         (Never-contented things!)

         Have brought a specimen

         Upon their quivering wings.

A Dream

In visions of the dark night

       I have dreamed of joy departed-

     But a waking dream of life and light

       Hath left me broken-hearted.

     Ah! what is not a dream by day

       To him whose eyes are cast

     On things around him with a ray

       Turned back upon the past?

     That holy dream- that holy dream,

       While all the world were chiding,

     Hath cheered me as a lovely beam

       A lonely spirit guiding.

     What though that light, thro' storm and night,

       So trembled from afar-

     What could there be more purely bright

       In Truth's day-star?

A Valentine

For her this rhyme is penned, whose luminous eyes,

    Brightly expressive as the twins of Leda,

  Shall find her own sweet name, that nestling lies

    Upon the page, enwrapped from every reader.

  Search narrowly the lines!- they hold a treasure

    Divine- a talisman- an amulet

  That must be worn at heart. Search well the measure-

    The words- the syllables! Do not forget

  The trivialest point, or you may lose your labor

    And yet there is in this no Gordian knot

  Which one might not undo without a sabre,

    If one could merely comprehend the plot.

  Enwritten upon the leaf where now are peering

    Eyes scintillating soul, there lie perdus

  Three eloquent words oft uttered in the hearing

    Of poets, by poets- as the name is a poet's, too,

  Its letters, although naturally lying

    Like the knight Pinto- Mendez Ferdinando-

  Still form a synonym for Truth- Cease trying!

    You will not read the riddle, though you do the best you can do.

The Forest Reverie

'Tis said that when

The hands of men

Tamed this primeval wood,

And hoary trees with groans of woe,

Like warriors by an unknown foe,

Were in their strength subdued,

The virgin Earth Gave instant birth

To springs that ne'er did flow

That in the sun Did rivulets run,

And all around rare flowers did blow

The wild rose pale Perfumed the gale

And the queenly lily adown the dale

(Whom the sun and the dew

And the winds did woo),

With the gourd and the grape luxuriant grew.

So when in tears

The love of years

Is wasted like the snow,

And the fine fibrils of its life

By the rude wrong of instant strife

Are broken at a blow

Within the heart

Do springs upstart

Of which it doth now know,

And strange, sweet dreams,

Like silent streams

That from new fountains overflow,

With the earlier tide

Of rivers glide

Deep in the heart whose hope has died--

Quenching the fires its ashes hide,--

Its ashes, whence will spring and grow

Sweet flowers, ere long,

The rare and radiant flowers of song!

Dreamland

By a route obscure and lonely,

Haunted by ill angels only,

Where an Eidolon, named NIGHT,

On a black throne reigns upright,

I have reached these lands but newly

From an ultimate dim Thule-

From a wild clime that lieth, sublime,

Out of SPACE- out of TIME.

Bottomless vales and boundless floods,

And chasms, and caves, and Titan woods,

With forms that no man can discover

For the tears that drip all over;

Mountains toppling evermore

Into seas without a shore;

Seas that restlessly aspire,

Surging, unto skies of fire;

Lakes that endlessly outspread

Their lone waters- lone and dead,-

Their still waters- still and chilly

With the snows of the lolling lily.

By the lakes that thus outspread

Their lone waters, lone and dead,-

Their sad waters, sad and chilly

With the snows of the lolling lily,-

By the mountains- near the river

Murmuring lowly, murmuring ever,-

By the grey woods,- by the swamp

Where the toad and the newt encamp-

By the dismal tarns and pools

Where dwell the Ghouls,-

By each spot the most unholy-

In each nook most melancholy-

There the traveller meets aghast

Sheeted Memories of the Past-

Shrouded forms that start and sigh

As they pass the wanderer by-

White-robed forms of friends long given,

In agony, to the Earth- and Heaven.

For the heart whose woes are legion

'Tis a peaceful, soothing region-

For the spirit that walks in shadow

'Tis- oh, 'tis an Eldorado!

But the traveller, travelling through it,

May not- dare not openly view it!

Never its mysteries are exposed

To the weak human eye unclosed;

So wills its King, who hath forbid

The uplifting of the fringed lid;

And thus the sad Soul that here passes

Beholds it but through darkened glasses.

By a route obscure and lonely,

Haunted by ill angels only,

Where an Eidolon, named NIGHT,

On a black throne reigns upright,

I have wandered home but newly

From this ultimate dim Thule.

The Coliseum

Type of the antique Rome! Rich reliquary

      Of lofty contemplation left to Time

      By buried centuries of pomp and power!

      At length- at length- after so many days

      Of weary pilgrimage and burning thirst,

      (Thirst for the springs of lore that in thee lie,)

      I kneel, an altered and an humble man,

      Amid thy shadows, and so drink within

      My very soul thy grandeur, gloom, and glory!

      Vastness! and Age! and Memories of Eld!

      Silence! and Desolation! and dim Night!

      I feel ye now- I feel ye in your strength-

      O spells more sure than e'er Judaean king

      Taught in the gardens of Gethsemane!

      O charms more potent than the rapt Chaldee

      Ever drew down from out the quiet stars!

      Here, where a hero fell, a column falls!

      Here, where the mimic eagle glared in gold,

      A midnight vigil holds the swarthy bat!

      Here, where the dames of Rome their gilded hair

      Waved to the wind, now wave the reed and thistle!

      Here, where on golden throne the monarch lolled,

      Glides, spectre-like, unto his marble home,

      Lit by the wan light of the horned moon,

      The swift and silent lizard of the stones!

      But stay! these walls- these ivy-clad arcades-

      These moldering plinths- these sad and blackened shafts-

      These vague entablatures- this crumbling frieze-

      These shattered cornices- this wreck- this ruin-

      These stones- alas! these grey stones- are they all-

      All of the famed, and the colossal left

      By the corrosive Hours to Fate and me?

      "Not all"- the Echoes answer me- "not all!

      Prophetic sounds and loud, arise forever

      From us, and from all Ruin, unto the wise,

      As melody from Memnon to the Sun.

      We rule the hearts of mightiest men- we rule

      With a despotic sway all giant minds.

      We are not impotent- we pallid stones.

      Not all our power is gone- not all our fame-

      Not all the magic of our high renown-

      Not all the wonder that encircles us-

      Not all the mysteries that in us lie-

      Not all the memories that hang upon

      And cling around about us as a garment,

      Clothing us in a robe of more than glory."

An Enigma

"Seldom we find," says Solomon Don Dunce,

       "Half an idea in the profoundest sonnet.

     Through all the flimsy things we see at once

       As easily as through a Naples bonnet-

       Trash of all trash!- how can a lady don it?

     Yet heavier far than your Petrarchan stuff-

     Owl-downy nonsense that the faintest puff

       Twirls into trunk-paper the while you con it."

     And, veritably, Sol is right enough.

     The general tuckermanities are arrant

     Bubbles- ephemeral and so transparent-

       But this is, now- you may depend upon it-

     Stable, opaque, immortal- all by dint

     Of the dear names that he concealed within 't.

Serenade

So sweet the hour, so calm the time,

   I feel it more than half a crime,

   When Nature sleeps and stars are mute,

   To mar the silence ev'n with lute.

   At rest on ocean's brilliant dyes

   An image of Elysium lies:

   Seven Pleiades entranced in Heaven,

   Form in the deep another seven:

   Endymion nodding from above

   Sees in the sea a second love.

   Within the valleys dim and brown,

   And on the spectral mountain's crown,

   The wearied light is dying down,

   And earth, and stars, and sea, and sky

   Are redolent of sleep, as I

   Am redolent of thee and thine

   Enthralling love, my Adeline.

   But list, O list,- so soft and low

   Thy lover's voice tonight shall flow,

   That, scarce awake, thy soul shall deem

   My words the music of a dream.

   Thus, while no single sound too rude

   Upon thy slumber shall intrude,

   Our thoughts, our souls- O God above!

   In every deed shall mingle, love.

Edgar Allan Poe – Full Biography

🗓 Birth & Early Life

• Born: January 19, 1809, Boston, Massachusetts, USA
• Birth name: Edgar Poe
• Parents: David Poe Jr. and Elizabeth Arnold Hopkins Poe (both actors)
• Orphaned early: His father abandoned the family in 1810, and his mother died of tuberculosis in 1811.
• Adoptive family: He was taken in by John and Frances Allan of Richmond, Virginia, but was never formally adopted.

🎓 Education & Youth

• Poe grew up in a wealthy household but had a strained relationship with his foster father, John Allan.
• Attended the University of Virginia in 1826, but dropped out within a year due to gambling debts and financial issues.
• Enlisted in the U.S. Army in 1827 under the name "Edgar A. Perry."
• Later attended West Point, but was deliberately court-martialed and dismissed in 1831.

✍️ Early Writing Career

• Poe published his first poetry collection, Tamerlane and Other Poems, in 1827 at just 18, but it went largely unnoticed.
• Moved to Baltimore and lived with his aunt, Maria Clemm, and her daughter (his cousin), Virginia Clemm.
• Gained recognition with the short story “MS. Found in a Bottle”, winning a literary prize in 1833.

❤️ Marriage & Personal Life

• Poe married Virginia Clemm in 1836. She was 13; he was 27.
• Their marriage was affectionate but plagued by illness—Virginia suffered from tuberculosis, which deeply affected Poe emotionally.
• Virginia died in 1847, leaving Poe devastated.

🖋 Major Works & Literary Style

Poe was a pioneer of multiple genres:

• Detective fiction: Invented the genre with The Murders in the Rue Morgue (1841).
• Horror and Gothic fiction: Famous for his psychological and macabre tales.
• Poetry: Known for musical, melancholic, and romantic poems.

🔹 Notable Stories:

• The Tell-Tale Heart
• The Fall of the House of Usher
• The Masque of the Red Death
• The Black Cat
• The Pit and the Pendulum
• The Cask of Amontillado

🔹 Famous Poems:

• The Raven (1845) – his most iconic poem
• Annabel Lee
• To Helen
• Lenore
• The Bells
• A Dream Within a Dream

🧠 Themes and Influences

• Common themes in his work include:
• Death, decay, madness, and guilt
• Unreliable narrators
• The supernatural
• Love and loss
• Influenced by Romanticism, Gothic tradition, and personal traumas (especially the death of women he loved).

📰 Editor and Critic

• Worked as a literary editor and critic for several magazines, including The Southern Literary Messenger and Graham’s Magazine.
• Known as the “Tomahawk Man” for his harsh and incisive reviews.
• Advocated for literary professionalism in America.

🍷 Struggles with Alcohol and Poverty

• Poe lived in near poverty most of his life, often struggling with finances.
• Battled alcoholism and possibly other mental health issues.
• His reputation suffered due to rumors and his tumultuous relationships with other writers and publishers.

⚰️ Mysterious Death

• Died: October 7, 1849, at age 40 in Baltimore.
• Circumstances: Found delirious on the streets days earlier, wearing clothes that were not his own.
• Cause of death: Officially unknown; theories include alcohol poisoning, rabies, epilepsy, or even political kidnapping (“cooping”).

🕊 Legacy

• Poe is considered the father of detective fiction, a master of the short story, and a towering figure in Gothic literature.
• Inspired writers such as Arthur Conan Doyle, H.P. Lovecraft, Charles Baudelaire, and Stephen King.
• His works remain widely read, adapted, and celebrated across the world.
• Annual commemorations, including the mysterious "Poe Toaster" who visited his grave every year on his birthday, reflect his cult following.

📚 Selected Bibliography

• Poetry Collections:
• Tamerlane and Other Poems (1827)
• The Raven and Other Poems (1845)
• Story Collections:
• Tales of the Grotesque and Arabesque (1840)
• The Gold-Bug and Other Tales (1843)

🏛 Memorials

• Buried: Westminster Hall and Burying Ground, Baltimore
• Poe has numerous schools, museums, and societies named after him.
• Honored in pop culture, films, TV shows, and academic studies worldwide.