 Preface by Edgar Allen Poe, read for LibriVox.org by Rachel Maze. Preface. In placing before the public this collection of Edgar Poe's poetical works, it is requisite to point out in what respects it differs from and is superior to the numerous collections which have preceded it. Until recently, all editions, whether American or English, of Poe's poems have been verbatim reprints of the first posthumous collection published at New York in 1850. In 1874 I began drawing attention to the fact that unknown and unreprinted poetry by Edgar Poe was in existence. Most, if not all of the specimens issued in my articles have since been reprinted by different editors and publishers, but the present is the first occasion on which all the pieces referred to have been garnered into one sheath. Besides the poems thus alluded to, this volume will be found to contain many additional pieces and extra stanzas nowhere else published or included in Poe's works. Such verses have been gathered from printed or manuscript sources during a research extending over many years. In addition to new poetical matter included in this volume, attention should also be solicited on behalf of the notes, which will be found to contain much matter, interesting both from a biographical and bibliographical points of view. John H. Ingram. End of preface. This recording is in the public domain. Section 1 of the Complete Poetical Works. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Morendo07. The Complete Poetical Works by Edgar Allan Poe. Section 1, Memoir of Edgar Allan Poe by John H. Ingram. Part 1. During the last few years, every incident in the life of Edgar Poe has been subjected to microscopic investigation. The result has not been altogether satisfactory. On the one hand, envy and prejudice have magnified every blemish of his character into crime, and on the other, blind admiration would depict him as far, quote, too good for human nature's daily food, unquote. Let us endeavour to judge him impartially, granting that he was, as a mortal, subject to the ordinary weaknesses of mortality, but that he was tempted sorely, treated badly, and suffered deeply. The poet's ancestry and parentage are chiefly interesting as explaining some of the complexities of his character. His father, David Poe, was of Anglo-Irish extraction. Educated for the bar, he elected to abandon it for the stage. In one of his tours through the chief towns of the United States, he met and married a young actress, Elizabeth Arnold, member of an English family distinguished for its musical talents. As an actress, Elizabeth Poe acquired some reputation, but became even better known for her domestic virtues. In those days, the United States afforded little scope for dramatic energy, so it is not surprising to find that, when her husband died after a few years of married life, the young widow had a vain struggle to maintain herself and three little ones, William Henry, Edgar and Rosalie. Before her premature death in December 1811, the poet's mother had been reduced to the dire necessity of living on the charity of her neighbours. Edgar, the second child of David and Elizabeth Poe, was born at Boston in the United States on 19 January 1809. Upon his mother's death at Richmond, Virginia, Edgar was adopted by a wealthy Scotch merchant, John Allen. Mr. Allen, who had married an American lady and settled in Virginia, was childless. He therefore took naturally to the brilliant and beautiful little boy, treated him as his son, and made him take his own surname. Edgar Allen, as he was now styled, after some elementary tuition in Richmond, was taken to England by his adopted parents and, in 1816, placed at the Manor House School, Stoke, Newington. Under the reverend Dr. Bransby, the future poet spent a lustrum of his life neither unprofitably nor apparently ungenially. Dr. Bransby, who is himself so quaintly portrayed in Poe's tale of William Wilson, described Edgar Allen, by which name only he knew the lad, as, quote, a quick and clever boy, unquote, who, quote, would have been a very good boy had he not been spoiled by his parents, unquote, meaning, of course, the Allens. They, quote, allowed him an extravagant amount of pocket money which enabled him to get into all manner of mischief. Still, I liked the boy, added the tutor, but poor fellow, his parents spoiled him, unquote. Poe has described some aspect of his school days in his oft-cited story of William Wilson. Probably there is the usual amount of poetic exaggeration in these reminiscences, but they are almost the only record we have of that portion of his career, and therefore, apart from their literary merits, are on that account deeply interesting. The description of the sleepy old London suburb, as it was in those days, is remarkably accurate, but the revisions which the story of William Wilson went through before it reached its present perfect state caused many of the author's details to deviate widely from their original correctness. His schoolhouse, in the earliest draft, was truthfully described as an, quote, old, irregular, and cottage-build, unquote, dwelling, and so it remained until its destruction a few years ago. The so-and-so William Wilson, referring to those bygone happy days spent in the English Academy, says, quote, the teeming brain of childhood requires no external world of incident to occupy or amuse it. The morning's awakening, the nightly summons to bed, the connings, the recitations, the periodical half-holidays and perambulations, the playground with its broils, its pastimes, its intrigues, these, by a mental sorcery long forgotten, were made to involve a wilderness of sensation, a world of rich incident, a universe of varied emotion, of excitement, the most passionate and spirit-stirring, en le bon temps que ce cycle de fer, unquote. From this world of voyage imagination, Poe was called to his adopted parents' home in the United States. He was born in America in 1821 and was speedily placed in an academy in Richmond, Virginia, in which city the islands continued to reside. Already well-grounded in the elementary processes of education, not without reputation on account of his European residence, handsome, proud, and regarded as the heir of a wealthy man, Poe must have been looked up to with no little respect by his fellow pupils. He speedily made himself a prominent position in the school, by his classical attainments, but by his athletic feats, accomplishments calculated to render him a leader among lads. Quote, in the simple school athletics of those days, when a gymnasium had not been heard of, he was Fazile Princeps, unquote, is the reminiscence of his fellow pupil, Colonel T. L. Preston. Poe, he remembers as, quote, a swift runner, a wonderful leaper, or rare, a boxer with some slight training. He would allow the strongest boy in the school to strike him with full force in the chest. He taught me the secret, and I imitated him after my measure. It was to inflate the lungs to the uttermost and at the moment of receiving the blow to exhale the air. It looked surprising and was indeed a little rough, but with a good breastbone and some resolution it was not difficult to stand it. Swimming, he was noted, being in many of his athletic proclivities surprisingly like Byron in his youth, unquote. In one of his feats, Poe only came off second best, quote, a challenge to a foot race, says Colonel Preston, had been passed between the two classical schools of the city. We selected Poe as our champion. The race came off one bright May morning at sunrise in the capital square. The truth compels me to add that on this occasion our school was beaten and we had to pay up our small bets. Poe ran well, but his competitor was a long-legged Indian-looking fellow who would have outstripped Atalanta without the help of the golden apples, unquote. Quote, in our Latin exercises in school, continues the Colonel, Poe was among the first, not first without dispute. We had competitors who fairly disputed the palm, especially one, Nat Howard, afterwards known as one of the right-paste scholars in Virginia, and distinguished also as a profound lawyer. If Howard was less brilliant than Poe, he was far more studious, for even then the germs of waywardness were developing in the nascent poet, and even then no inconsiderable portion of his time was given to versifying. But if I put Howard as a Latinist on a level with Poe, I do him full justice. Poe, says the Colonel, was very fond of the odes of Horace and repeated them so often in my hearing that I learned by sound the words of many before I understood their meaning. In the lilting rhythm of the sapphix and the ambix, his ear, as yet untutored in more complicated harmonies, took special delight. Two odes in particular have been humming in my ear all my life since set to the tune of his recitation. I remember that Poe was also a very fine French scholar, yet with all his superiorities, he was not the master spirit, nor even the favorite of the school. I assign from my recollection this place to Howard. Poe, as I recall my impressions now, was so fond of the odes of Horace, that I learned by sound the words of many before I understood their meaning. Poe, as I recall my impressions now, was self-willed, capricious, inclined to be imperious, and, though of generous impulses, not steadily kind, nor even amiable, and so what he would exact was refused to him. I add another thing which had its influence, I am sure. At the time of which I speak, Richmond was one of the most aristocratic cities on this side of the Atlantic. A school is, of its nature, democratic, but still boys will unconsciously bear about the odour of their father's notions good or bad. Of Edgar Poe, who had then resumed his parental cognomen, it was known that his parents had been players, and that he was dependent upon the bounty that is bestowed upon an adopted son. All this had the effect of making the boys decline his leadership, and on looking back on it since, I fancy it gave him a fierceness he would otherwise not have had." This last paragraph of Colonel Preston's recollections cast a suggestive light upon the causes which rendered unhappy the latter's early life and tended to blight his prospective hopes. Although mixing with members of the best families of the province and naturally endowed with hereditary and native pride fostered by the indulgence of wealth and the consciousness of intellectual superiority, Edgar Poe was made to feel that his parentage was obscure and that he himself was dependent upon the charity and caprice of an alien by blood. For many lads, these things would have had but little meaning, but to one of Poe's proud temperament, it must have been a source of constant torment and all allusions to it gall and wormwood. And Mr. Allen was not the man to wean Poe from such festering fancies. As a rule, he was proud of the handsome and talented boy and indulged him in all that wealth could purchase, but at other times he treated him with quantumly and made him feel the bitterness of his position. Still Poe did maintain his leading position among the scholars at that Virginia Academy and several still living have favoured us with reminiscences of him. His feats in swimming to which Colonel Preston has alluded are quite a feature of his youthful career. Colonel Mayo records one daring performance in natation which is thoroughly characteristic of the lat. One day in midwinter, when standing on the banks of the James River, Poe dared his comrade into jumping in in order to swim to a certain point with him. After floundering about in the nearly frozen stream for some time, they reached the piles upon which Mayo's bridge was then supported and there attempted to rest trying to gain the shore by climbing up the log abutment to the bridge. Upon reaching the bridge, however, they were dismayed to find that its plank flooring overlapped the abutment by several feet and that it was impossible to ascend it. Nothing remained for them but to let go their slippery hold and swim back to the shore. Poe reached the bank in an exhausted and benumb condition whilst Mayo was rescued by a boat just as he was succumbing. On getting ashore, Poe was seized with a violent attack of vomiting and both lats were ill for several weeks. Alluding to another quite famous swimming feat of his own, the poet remarked, quote, any swimmer in the falls in my days would have swum the Hellespont and thought nothing of the matter. I swam from Ludlam's wharf to Warwick, six miles, in a hot-june sun against one of the strongest tides ever known in the river. It would have been a feat comparatively easy to swim twenty miles in still water. I would not think much, Poe added in a strain of exaggeration, not unusual with him, of attempting to swim the British Channel from Dover to Calais, unquote. Colonel Mayo, who had tried to accompany him in this performance, had to stop on the way and says that Poe, when he reached the goal, emerged from the water with neck, face and back blistered. The facts of this feat, which was undertaken for a wager, having been questioned, Poe, ever intolerant of contradiction, obtained and published the affidavits of several gentlemen who had witnessed it. They also certified that Poe did not seem at all fatigued and that he walked back to Richmond immediately after the performance. The poet is generally remembered at this part of his career to have been slight in figure and person, but to have been well-made, active, sinewy and graceful. Despite the fact that he was thus noted among his school fellows and indulged at home, he does not appear to have been in sympathy with his surroundings. Already doured with the, quote, hate of hate, the scorn of scorn, unquote, he appears to have made foes both among those who envied him and those whom, in the pride of intellectuality, he treated with pugnacious contempt. Beneath the haughty exterior, however, was a warm and passionate heart which only needed circumstance to call forth an almost fanatical intensity of affection. A well-authenticated instance of this is thus related by Mrs. Whitman, quote, while at the Academy in Richmond he one day accompanied a schoolmate to his home where he saw, for the first time, Mrs. Helen Stannard, the mother of his young friend. This lady, on entering the room, took his hands and spoke some gentle and gracious words of welcome which so penetrated the sensitive heart of the orphan boy as to deprive him of the power of speech and, for a time, almost of consciousness itself. He returned home in a dream with but one thought, one hope in life, to hear again the sweet and gracious words that had made the desolate world so beautiful to him and filled his lonely heart with the oppression of a new joy. This lady afterwards became the confidant of all his boyish sorrows and hers was the one redeeming influence that saved and guided him in the earlier days of his turbulent and passionate youth, unquote. When Edgar was unhappy at home, which says his aunt, Mrs. Clem, quote, was very often the case, he went to Mrs. Stannard for sympathy, for consolation and for advice, unquote. Unfortunately, the sad fortune which so frequently thwarted his hopes ended this friendship. The lady was overwhelmed by a terrible calamity and, at the period when her guiding voice was most requisite, she fell a prey to mental alienation. She died and was entombed in a neighboring cemetery, but her poor boyish admirer could not endure to think of her lying lonely and forsaken in her vaulted home, so he would leave the house at night and visit her tomb. When the nights were drear, quote, when the autumnal rains fell and the winds wailed mournfully over the graves, he lingered longest and came away most regretfully, unquote. The memory of this lady, of this, quote, one idolatrous and purely ideal love, unquote, of his boyhood was cherished to the last. The name of Helen frequently recurs in his youthful verses. The Payon, now first included in his poetical works, refers to her and to her he inscribed the classic and exquisitely beautiful stanzas, beginning, Helen, thy beauty is to me. Another important item to be noted in this epoch of his life is that he was already a poet. Among his school fellows, he appears to have acquired some little reputation as a writer of satirical verses, but of his poetry of that which, as he declared, had been with him, quote, not a purpose, but a passion, unquote, he probably preserved the secret, especially as we know that at his adoptive home, poetry was a forbidden thing. As early as 1821, he appears to have essayed various pieces and some of these were ultimately included in his first volume. With Poe, poetry was a personal matter, a channel through which the turbulent passions of his heart found an outlet. With feelings such as were his, it came to pass as a matter of course that the youthful poet fell in love. His first affair of the heart is, doubtless, reminiscently portrayed in what he says of his boyish ideal, Byron. This passion, he remarks, quote, if passion it can properly be called, was of the most thoroughly romantic, shadowy and imaginative character. It was born of the hour and of the youthful necessity to love. It had no peculiar regard to the person or to the character or to the reciprocating affection. Any maiden, not immediately and positively repulsive, unquote, he deems would have suited the occasion of frequent and unrestricted intercourse with such an imaginative and poetic youth, quote, the result, he deems, was not merely natural or merely probable, it was as inevitable as destiny itself, unquote. Between the lines may be read the history of his own love, quote, the egeria of his dreams, the Venus Aphrodite that sprang in full and supernal loveliness from the bright foam upon the storm-tormented ocean of his thoughts, unquote, was a little girl, Ilmira Royster, who lived with her father in a house opposite to the island's enrichment. The young people met again and again and the lady, who has only recently passed away, recalled Edgar as, quote, a beautiful boy, unquote, passionately fond of music, enthusiastic and impulsive, but with prejudices already strongly developed. A certain amount of love-making took place between the young people and Poe, with his usual passionate energy, ere he left home for the university, had persuaded his fair innumerata to engage herself to him. Poe left home for the University of Virginia, Charlottesville, in the beginning of 1825. He wrote frequently to Miss Royster, but her father did not approve of the affair, and, so the story runs, intercepted the correspondence until it ceased. At 17 Ilmira became the bride of a Mr. Shelton and it was not until some time afterwards that Poe discovered how it was his passionate appeals had failed to elicit any response from the object of his youthful affection. Poe's short university career was in many respects a repetition of his course at the Richmond Academy. He became noted at Charlottesville, both for his athletic feats and his scholastic successes. He entered as a student on February 1st, 1826 and remained till the close of the second session in December of that year, quote, he entered the schools of ancient and modern languages, attending the lectures on Latin, Greek, French, Spanish and Italian. I was a member of the last three classes, unquote, says Mr. William Wurtenbaker, the recently deceased librarian, quote, and can testify that he was tolerably regular in his attendance and a successful student having obtained distinction at the final examination in Latin and French, and this was at that time the highest honor a student could obtain. The present regulations in regard to degrees had not then been adopted. Under existing regulations, he would have graduated in the two languages above named and have been entitled to diplomas, unquote. These statements of Poe's classmate are confirmed by Dr. Harrison, chairman of the faculty, who remarks that the poet was a great favorite with his fellow students and was noted for the remarkable rapidity with which he prepared his recitations and for their accuracy, and his translations from the modern languages being especially noteworthy. Several of Poe's classmates at Charlottesville have testified to his, quote, noble qualities, unquote, and other good endowments, but they remember that his, quote, disposition was rather retiring and that he had few intimate associates, unquote. Mr. Thomas Boyling, one of his fellow students who has favored us with reminiscences of him, says, quote, was acquainted with him, but that is about all. My impression was and is that no one could say that he knew him. He wore a melancholy face always and even his smile, for I do not ever remember to have seen him laugh, seemed to be forced. When he engaged sometimes with others in athletic exercises in which so far as high or long jumping, I believe he excelled all the rest. Poe, with the same ever sad face, had to participate in what was amusement to the others more as a task than sport, unquote. Poe had no little talent for drawing and Mr. John Willis states that the walls of his college rooms were covered with his crayon sketches whilst Mr. Boyling mentions, in connection with the Poe's artistic facility, some interesting incidents. The two young men had purchased copies of a handsomely illustrated edition of Byron's poems and for a few days after this purchase, Mr. Boyling found him engaged in copying one of the engravings with crayon upon his dormitory ceiling. He continued to amuse himself in this way from time to time until he had filled all the space in his room with life-size figures, which, it is remembered by those who saw them, were highly ornamental and well executed. As Mr. Boyling talked with his associate, Poe would continue to scribble away with his pencil as if writing and when his visitor gestingly remonstrated with him on his want of politeness, he replied that he had been all attention and proof that he had by suitable comment, assigning as a reason for his apparent want of courtesy that he was trying to divide his mind to carry on a conversation and write sensibly upon a totally different subject at the same time. Mr. Wurttenbaker, in his interesting reminiscences of the Poe, it says, quote, After spending an evening together at a private house, he invited me, on our return, into his room. It was a cold night in December and his fire having gone pretty nearly out by the aid of some tallow candles and the fragments of a small table which he broke up for the purpose, he soon rekindled it, and by its comfortable blaze I spent a very pleasant hour with Mr. Wurttenbaker. Mr. Wurttenbaker, by its comfortable blaze, I spent a very pleasant hour with him. On this occasion, he spoke with regret of the large amount of money he had wasted and of the debts he had contracted during the session. If my memory be not at fault, he estimated his indebtedness at $2,000, and though they were gaming debts, he was earnest and emphatic in the declaration that he was bound by honour to pay them at the earliest opportunity, unquote. This appears to have been posed last night at the university. He left it never to return, yet short as was his sojourn there, he left behind him such honourable memories that his alma mater is now only too proud to enroll his name among her most respected sons. Poe's adopted father, however, did not regard his prodigy's collegiate career with equal pleasure. Whatever view he may have entertained of the last scholastic successes, he resolutely refused to discharge the gambling debts which, like too many of his classmates, he had incurred. A violent altercation took place between Mr. Allen and the youth, and Poe hastily quitted the shelter of home to try and make his way in the world alone. Taking with him such poems as he had ready, Poe made his way to Boston, and there looked up some of his mother's old theatrical friends, whether he thought of adopting the stage as a profession, or whether he thought of getting their assistance towards helping him to put a drama of his own upon the stage that that dream of all young authors is now unknown. He appears to have wandered about for some time, and by some means or the other succeeded in getting a little volume of poems printed, quote, for private circulation only, unquote. This was towards the end of 1827, when he was nearing 19. Doubtless, Poe expected to dispose of his volume by subscription among his friends, but copies did not go off, and ultimately the book was suppressed, and the remainder of the edition, for, quote, reasons of a private nature, unquote, destroyed. What happened to the young poet, and how he contrived to exist for the next year or so, is a mystery still unsolved. It has always been believed that he found his way to Europe, and met with some curious adventures there, and Poe himself certainly alleged that such was the case. Numbers of mythical stories have been invented to account for this chasm in the poet's life, and most of them self evidently fabulous. In a recent biography of Poe, an attempt had been made to prove that he enlisted in the army under an assumed name, and served for about 18 months in the artillery in a highly creditable manner, receiving an honorable discharge at the instance of Mr. Allen. This account is plausible, but will need further explanation of its many discrepancies of dates and verification of the different documents cited in proof of it, but the public can receive it as fact. So many fables have been published about Poe, and even many fictitious documents quoted that it behoves the unprejudiced to be wary in accepting any new statements concerning him that are not thoroughly authenticated. End of Section 1. Section 2 of the Complete Poetical Works. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Morendo07. The Complete Poetical Works by Edgar Allen Poe. Section 2, Memoir of Edgar Allen Poe by John H. Ingram, Part 2. On the 28th of February, 1829, Mrs. Allen died, and with her death the final thread that had bound Poe to her husband was broken. The adopted son arrived too late to take a last farewell of her whose influence had given the Allen residents its only claim upon the poet's heart. A kind of truce was patched up over the grave of the deceased lady, but for the future Poe found that home was home no longer. Again the young man turned to poetry not only as a solace, but as a means of earning a livelihood. Again he printed a little volume of poems which included his longest piece, and several others now deemed classic. The book was a great advance upon his previous collection, but failed to obtain any amount of public praise or personal profit for its author. Feeling the difficulty of living by literature, at the same time that he saw he might have to rely largely upon his own exertions for a livelihood, Poe expressed a wish to enter the army. After no little difficulty, a cadetship was obtained for him at Military Academy, a military school in many respects equal to the best in Europe for the education of officers for the army. At the time Poe entered the academy it possessed anything but an attractive character, the discipline having been of the most severe character and the accommodation in many respects unsuitable for growing lads. The poet appears to have entered upon this new course of life with his usual enthusiasm and for a time to have born in place with unusual steadiness. He entered the institution on the 1st of July 1830 and by the following March had been expelled for determined disobedience. Whatever view may be taken of Poe's conduct upon this occasion it must be seen that the expulsion from West Point was of his own seeking. Highly coloured pictures have been drawn of his eccentric behaviour at the academy, but the fact remains that he willfully or at any rate purposely flung away his cadetship. It is surmised with plausibility that the second marriage of Mr Allen and his expressed intention of withdrawing his help and of not endowing or bequeathing this adopted son any of his property was the mainspring of Poe's action. Believing it impossible to continue without aid in a profession so expensive as was a military life, he determined to relinquish it and return to his long cherished attempt to become an author. Expelled from the institution that afforded board and shelter and discarded by his former protector the unfortunate and penniless young man yet a third time attempted to get a start in the world of letters by means of a volume of poetry. If it be true as alleged that several of his brother cadets aided his efforts by subscribing for his little work there is some possibility that a few dollars rewarded from the alleged aid it is certain that in a short time after leaving the military academy Poe was reduced to sad straits. He disappeared for nearly two years from public notice and how he lived during that period has never been satisfactorily explained. In 1833 he returns to history in the character of a winner of a hundred dollar award offered by a newspaper for the best story. The prize was unanimously adjudged by the adjudicators and Mr. Kennedy, an author of some little repute having become interested by the young man's evident genius generously assisted him towards obtaining a livelihood by literary labor. Through his new friend's introduction to the proprietor of the Southern Literary Messenger a moribund magazine published at irregular intervals Poe became first a paid contributor and eventually the editor of the publication which ultimately he rendered one of the most inspected and profitable periodicals of the day. This success was entirely due to the brilliancy and power of Poe's own contributions to the magazine. In March 1834 Mr. Allen died and if our poet had maintained any hopes of further assistance from him all doubt was settled by the will by which the whole property of the deceased was left to his second wife and her three sons. Poe was not named. On 6th of May 1836 Poe, who now had nothing but his pen to trust to, married his cousin Virginia Clem a child of only 14 and with her mother as housekeeper started a home of his own. In the meantime his various writings in the Messenger began to attract attention and to extend his reputation into literary circles but beyond his editorial salary of about 520 dollars brought him no pecuniary reward. In January 1837 for reasons never thoroughly explained Poe severed his connection with the Messenger and moved with all his household goods from Richmond to New York. Southern friends state that Poe was desirous of either being admitted into partnership with his employer or of being allowed a larger share of the profits which his own labors procured. In New York his earnings seem to have been small and irregular his most important work having been the republication from the Messenger in book form of his default like romance entitled Arthur Gordon Pym. The truthful heir of the narrative as well as its other merits excited public curiosity both in England and America but Poe's remuneration does not appear to have been proportionate to its success nor did he receive anything from the numerous European editions the work rapidly passed through. In 1838 Poe was induced by a literary friend to break up his New York home and remove with his wife and aunt, her mother to Philadelphia. The Quaker City was at that time quite a hotbed for magazine projects and among the many new periodicals Poe was enabled to earn some kind of a living. To Burton's Gentleman's magazine for 1837 he had contributed a few articles but in 1840 he arranged with its proprietor to take up the editorship. Poe had long sought to start a magazine of his own and it was probably with a view to such an eventuality that one of his conditions for accepting the editorship of the Gentleman's magazine was that his name should appear upon the title page. Poe worked hard at the Gentleman's for some time contributing to its columns much of his best work. Ultimately however he came to loggerheads with its proprietor Burton who disposed of the magazine to a Mr. Graham Arrival Publisher. At this period Poe collected into two volumes and got them published as Tales of the Grotesque and Arabesques, 25 of his stories but he never received any remuneration save a few copies of the volumes for the work. For some time the poets drove most earnestly to start a magazine of his own but all his efforts failed owing to his want of capital. The purchaser of Burton's magazine having amalgamated it with another issued the two under the title of Graham's magazine. Poe became a contributor to the new venture and in November of the year 1840 consented to assume the post of editor. Under Poe's management assisted by the liberality of Mr. Graham Graham's magazine became a grand success. To its pages Poe contributed some of his finest and most popular tales and attracted to the publication the pens of many of the best contemporary authors. The public was not slow in showing its appreciation of pabulum put before it and so its directors avert in less than two years the circulation rose from 5 to 52 thousand copies. A great deal of this success was due to Poe's weird and wonderful stories still more perhaps to his trenchant critiques and his startling theories and then to cryptology. As regards the tales now issued in Graham's attention may especially be drawn to the world-famed murders in the Rue Morgue the first of a series une espèce de trilégie illustrative of an analytic phase of Poe's peculiar mind. This trilégie of tales of which the later two were the coined letter and the mystery of Marie Roguette was avowedly written to prove the capability of solving the puzzling riddles of life by identifying another person's mind by our own. By trying to follow the processes by which a person would reason out a certain thing Poe propounded the theory that another person might ultimately arrive as it were at that person's conclusions indeed penetrate the innermost arcanum of his brain and read his most secret thoughts. Whilst the public was still pondering over the startling proposition and enjoying perusal of its apparent proofs, Poe still further increased his popularity and drew attention to his works by putting forward the attractive but less dangerous theorem that human ingenuity could not construct a cipher which human ingenuity could not solve. This cryptographic assertion was made in connection with what the public deemed a challenge and Poe was inundated with ciphers more or less obstruous demanding solution. In the correspondence which ensued in Graham's magazine and other publications Poe was universally acknowledged to have proved his case so far as his own personal ability to unriddle such mysteries was concerned. Although he had never offered to undertake such a task he triumphantly solved every cryptogram sent to him with one exception and that exception he proved conclusively was only an imposture for which no solution was possible. The outcome of this exhaustive and unprofitable labor was the fascinating story of The Gold Bug a story in which the discovery of hidden treasure is brought about by the unriddling of an intricate cipher. The year 1841 maybe deemed the brightest of Poe's checkered career on every side acknowledged to be a new and brilliant literary light chief editor of a powerful magazine admired, feared and envied with a reputation already spreading rapidly in Europe as well as in his native continent the poet might well have hoped for prosperity and happiness but dark cankers were gnawing his heart. His pecuniary position was still embarrassing. His writings which were the result of slow and careful labor were poorly paid and his remuneration as joint editor of Graham's was small. He was not permitted to have undivided control and but a slight share of the profits of the magazine he had rendered world famous whilst a fearful domestic calamity wrecked all his hopes and caused him to resort to that refuge of the broken hearted to that drink which finally destroyed his prospects and his life. Edgar Poe's own account of this terrible malady and its cause was made towards the end of his career. Its truth has never been disproved and in its most important points it has been thoroughly substantiated. To a correspondent he writes in January 1848 quote you say can you hint to me what was that terrible evil which caused the irregularities so profoundly lamented Yes, I can do more than hint. This evil was the greatest which can befall a man. Six years ago a wife whom I loved as no man ever loved before ruptured a blood vessel in singing her life was despaired of I took leave of her forever and underwent all the agonies of her death. She recovered partially and I again hoped at the end of a year the vessel broke again I went through precisely the same then again again and even once again at varying intervals. Each time I felt all the agonies of her death and at each accession of the disorder I loved her more dearly and clung to her life with more desperate pertinacity but I am constitutionally sensitive nervous in a very unusual degree. I became insane with long intervals of horrible sanity. During these fits of absolute consciousness I drank God only knows how often or how much as a matter of course my enemies referred the insanity to the drink rather than the drink to the insanity. I had indeed nearly abandoned all hope of a permanent cure when I found one in the death of my wife this I can and do endure as becomes a man. It was the horrible never ending oscillation between hope and despair which I could not longer have endured without total loss of reason The poet at this period was residing in a small but elegant little home superintended by his ever-faithful guardian his wife's mother his own aunt. Mrs. Clem, the lady whom he so gratefully addressed in after years in the well-known sonnet as more than mother unto me but a change came over the spirit of his dream his severance from Graham's owing to we know not what causes took place and his fragile schemes of happiness faded as fast as the sun set. His means melted away and he became unfitted by mental trouble and ill health to earn more. The terrible strates to which he and his unfortunate beloved ones were reduced may be comprehended after perusal of these words from Mr. A. B. Harris's Reminiscences Referring to the poet's residence in Gardens Philadelphia, this writer says quote it was during their stay there that Mrs. Poe, while singing one evening ruptured a blood vessel and after that she suffered a hundred deaths she could not bear the slightest exposure and needed the utmost care and all those conveniences as to apartment and surroundings which are so important in the case of an invalid were almost matters of life and death to her and yet the room where she lay was hardly able to breathe except as she was found was a little narrow place with the ceiling so low over the narrow bed that her head almost touched it but no one dared to speak Mr. Poe was so sensitive and irritable quick as steel and flint said one who knew him in those days and he would not allow a word about the danger of her dying the mention of it drove him wild is it to be wondered at should it not indeed be forgiven him if impelled by the anxieties and privations at home the unfortunate poet driven to the brink of madness plunged still deeper into the slough of despond unable to provide for the pressing necessities of his beloved wife the distracted man quote would steal out of the house at night and go off and wonder about the street for hours proud heart sick despairing not knowing which way to turn or what to do while Mrs. Clem would endure the anxiety at home as long as she could and then start off in search of him unquote during his calmer moments Poe exerted all his efforts to proceed with his literary labors he continued to contribute to Graham's magazine the proprietor of which periodical remained his friend to the end of his life and also to some other leading publications of Philadelphia and New York a suggestion having been made to him by N.P. Willis of the latter city he determined to once more wander back to it as he founded impossible to live upon his literary earnings where he was accordingly about the middle of 1845 Poe removed to New York and shortly afterwards was engaged by Willis and his partner Morris as sub editor on the evening mirror he was says Willis quote employed by us for several months as critic and sub editor he resided with his wife and mother at Fordham a few miles out of town but was at his desk in the office from nine in the morning till the evening paper went to press with the highest admiration for his genius and the willingness to let it atone for more than ordinary irregularity we were led by common report to expect a very capricious attention to his duties and occasionally a scene of violence and difficulty time went on however and he was invariably punctual and industrious with his pale beautiful and intellectual face as a reminder of what genius was in him it was impossible of course not to treat him always with deferential courtesy with a prospect of taking the lead in another periodical he at last voluntarily gave up his employment with us unquote a few weeks before Poe relinquished his glorious and ill-paid work on the evening mirror his marvelous poem of the raven was published the effect was magical never before nor indeed ever since has a single short poem produced such a great and immediate enthusiasm it did more to render its author famous than all his other writings put together it made him the literary lion of the season called into existence innumerable was translated into various languages and indeed created quite a literature of its own Poe was naturally delighted with the success his poem had attained and from time to time read it in his musical manner in public halls or at literary receptions nevertheless he affected to regard it as a work of art only and wrote his essay entitled the philosophy of composition to prove that it was merely a mechanical production made in accordance with certain set rules although our poet's reputation was now well established he found it still a difficult matter to live by his pen even when in good health he wrote slowly and with fastidious care and when his work was done had great difficulty in getting publishers to accept it since his death it has been proved that many months often elapsed before he could get either his most desired poems or tales published Poe left the evening mirror in order to take part in the Broadway Journal wherein he reissued from time to time nearly the whole of his prose and poetry ultimately he acquired possession of this periodical but having no funds to carry it on after a few months of heart breaking labor he had to relinquish it exhausted in body and mind the unfortunate man now retreated with his dying wife and her mother to a quaint little cottage at Fortham outside New York here after a time the unfortunate household was reduced to the utmost need not even having wherewith to purchase the necessities of life at this dire moment some friendly hand much to the indignation and dismay of Poe himself made an appeal to the public on behalf of the hapless family the appeal had the desired effect old friends and new came to the rescue and thanks to them and especially to Mrs. Shew the Marie Louise of Poe's later poems his wife's dying moments were soothed and the poet's own immediate once provided for in January 1846 Virginia Poe died and for some time after her death the poet remained in an apathetic stupor and indeed it may be truly said that never again did his mental faculties appear to regain their former power. For another year or so Poe lived quietly at Fortham guarded by the watchful care of Mrs. Clem writing little but thinking out his philosophical prose poem of Eureka which he deemed the crowning work of his life. His life was as abstinious and regular as his means were small gradually however as intercourse with fellow literary re-aroused his dormant energies he began to mediate a fresh start in the world. His old and never thoroughly abandoned project of starting a magazine of his own for the enunciation of his own views on literature now absorbed all his thoughts in order to get the necessary funds for establishing his publication on a solid footing he determined to give a series of lectures in various parts of the states his re-entry into public life only involved him in a series of misfortunes at one time he was engaged to be married to Mrs. Whitman a widow lady of considerable intellectual and literary attainments but after several incidents of a highly romantic character the match was broken off in 1849 Poe revisited the south and amid the scenes and friends of his early life passed some not altogether unpleasing time at Richmond, Virginia he again met his first love Elmira now a wealthy widow and after a short renewed acquaintance was once more engaged to marry her but misfortune continued to dog his steps a publishing affair recalled him to New York he left Richmond by boat for Baltimore at which city he arrived on the 3rd of October and handed his trunk to a porter to carry to the train for Philadelphia what now happened has never been clearly explained previous to starting on his journey Poe had complained of indisposition of chilliness and of exhaustion and it is not improbable that an increase or continuance of these symptoms had tempted him to drink or to resort to some of those narcotics he is known to have indulged in towards the close of his life whatever the cause of his delay the consequences were fatal whilst in a state of temporary mania or insensibility he fell into the hands of a band of ruffians who were scouring the streets in search of accomplices or victims what followed is given on undoubted authority his captors carried the unfortunate poet into an electioneering den where they drugged him with whiskey it was election day for a member of Congress and Poe with other victims was dragged from polling station to station and forced to vote the ticket placed in his hand incredible as it may appear the superintending officials of those days registered the prophet vote quite regardless of the condition of the person personifying a voter the election over the dying poet was left in the streets to perish but being found here life was extinct he was carried to the washington university hospital where he expired on the 7th of October 1849 in the 41st year of his age Edgar Poe was buried in the family grave of his grandfather general Poe in the presence of a few friends and relatives on the 17th of November 1875 his remains were removed from their first resting place and in the presence of a large number of people were placed under a marble monument subscribed for by some of his many admirers his wife's body has recently been placed by his side the story of that quote fitful fever which constituted the life of Edgar Poe leaves upon the reader's mind the conviction that he was indeed truly typified by that quote unhappy master whom unmerciful disaster followed fast and followed faster till his songs won burden bore till the dirges of his hope that melancholy burden bore of never, never more unquote John H. Ingram end of section 2 poems of later life edition by Edgar Allen Poe read for LibriVox.org by Rachel Mace to the noblest of her sex to the author of the drama of exile to miss Elizabeth Barrett Barrett of England I dedicate this volume with the most enthusiastic admiration and with the most sincere esteem 1845 Edgar Allen Poe end of dedication this recording is in the public domain Reface by Edgar Allen Poe read for LibriVox.org by Rachel Mace Reface these trifles are collected and republished chiefly with a view to their redemption from the many improvements to which they have been subjected while going at random the rounds of the press I am naturally anxious that what I have written should circulate as I wrote it if circulate at all in deference of my own taste nevertheless it is incumbent upon me to say that I think nothing in this volume of much value to the public or very credible to myself events not to be controlled have prevented me from making at any time any serious effort in what under happier circumstances would have been my field of choice with me poetry has not been a purpose but a passion and the passions should be held in reverence they must not they cannot at will be excited with an eye to the paltry compensations or more paltry commendations of mankind 1845 Edgar Allen Poe end of preface this recording is in the public domain section 5 of the complete poetical works this is a LibriVox recording or LibriVox recordings are in the public domain for more information or to volunteer please visit LibriVox.org the complete poetical works by Edgar Allen Poe section 5 the raven once upon a midnight drary while I pondered we can wary over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten law while I nodded nearly napping suddenly there came a tapping as of someone gently wrapping wrapping at my chamber door did some visitor I mattered 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 for my books so creased 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 and certain rustling of its 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 did some visitor and treating entrance at my chamber door some late visitor and treating entrance at my chamber door this it is and nothing more presently my soul grew stronger hesitating then no longer sir said I all my down truly a forgiveness I implore but the fact is I was napping and so gently you came wrapping and so vainly you came tapping at my chamber door that I scarce was sure I had you here I opened wide the door darkness there and nothing more deep into the darkness bearing long I stood there wandering fearing doubting dreaming dreams no more to ever dare to dream before but the silence wasn't broken and the darkness gave no token and the only word there spoken was the whispered word Lenore they so whispered and then echo murmured back the word Lenore merely this and nothing more back into the chamber turning all my soul was in me burning soon I heard again a tapping somewhat louder than before surely sir I surely that is something at my window lattice let me through them what their ass is and this mystery explore let my heart bestill a moment and this mystery explore it is the wind and nothing more open here I flung the shutter when with many a fluff and flutter in their stepped a stately raven of the saintly days of York not the least of Beesons made he not an instant stopped or stayed he but with me and Lord and Lady perched above my chamber door perched upon a bust of parlours just upon my chamber door perched and sat and nothing more then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling by the grave and standing quorum of the contours it were thou thy crest be shorn and shaven now I said ah 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 much I marveled this ungainly fowl to hear discord so plainly though its answer little meaning little relevancible for we cannot help agreeing that no living human being ever yet was blessed with seeing a bird above his chamber door bird or beast upon the sculpture of busts above his chamber door with such a name as nevermore but the raven sitting lonely on that placid bust spoke only that one word as if his soul in that one word he did outbore nothing farther than he uttered not a feather than he fluttered till I scarcely more than muttered are the friends have flown before on the morrow he will live me as my hopes have flown before then the bird said nevermore started up the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken little said I what is utter is its only stalking saw caught from some unhappy master whom unmercifully disaster followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore till the dirges of his hope of the melancholy burden bore of never, nevermore but the raven still beguilling all my sad soul into smiling straight I willed a cushioned seas in front bed and busts and all then upon the velvet sinking I bit took myself to linking fancy unto fancy thinking what this ominous bird of yore what this green uncainly ghastly caught an ominous bird of yore meant in croaking nevermore this I sat engaged in guessing but no syllable express to the fall his fairy eyes now burned into my bosoms core this and more I sat divining with my head at easier climbing on the cushion velvet lining with the lab light gloated over but whose velvet violet lining with the lab light gloating over she shall press ah nevermore then me thought the air grew denser perfumed from an unseen sensor swung by seraphine whose footfalls tinkled on the dafted floor rest I cried thy God had lent thee by these angels he had sent thee respite respite and nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore off oh quack for this kind of penthe and forget this lost Lenore quote for the raven nevermore prophet said I think of evil prophet still if bad or devil whether tempers sent or whether tempers tossed the here ashore death let yet all undaunted on this desert land enchanted on this home by horror haunted tell me truly I implore is there is there bombing gilead tell me tell me I implore quote for the raven nevermore prophet said I think of evil prophet still if bad or devil by the heaven that bends by that God we both adore tell this all with sorrow laden if within the distance it shall class a sainted maiden whom the angels name in all class for rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name in all quote for the raven nevermore be that word our sign of passing bird or fiend I freaked up starting get thee back into the tempest in the night's plutonium shore leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul has spoken leave my loneliness unbroken quit the bust of off my door take thy beak from out my heart and take thy form from off my door quote for the raven nevermore and the raven never flitting still is sitting still is sitting on the valid bust of parlours just above my chamber door and his eyes are all the seeming of demons 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 flocking on the floor shall be lifted nevermore published 1845 End of section 5 by Rumpel the Poetry hear the sledges with the bells silver bells what a world of merriment their melody foretells how they tinkle tinkle tinkle in the icy air of night while the stars that over sprinkle all the heavens seem to twinkle with a crystalline delight keeping time time time in a sort of runic rhyme to the tint and abulation that so musically wells from the bells bells bells bells bells bells bells from the jingling and the tinkling of the bells hear the mellow wedding bells golden bells what a world of happiness their harmony foretells through the balmyer of night how they ring out there to light from the molten golden notes and all in tune what a liquid did he floats to the turtle dove that listens while she gloats on the moon oh from out the sounding cells what a gosh of euphony voluminously wells how it swells how it dwells in the future how it tells of the rapture that impels to the swinging and the ringing of the bells bells bells of the bells bells bells bells bells bells bells bells to the rhyming and the chiming of the bells hear the loud alarm bells brazen bells what a tale of terror now their turbulence he tells in the startled air of night how they scream out there afright too much horrified to speak they can only shriek shriek out of tune in a clamorous appealing to the mercy of the fire in a mad expostulation with a deaf and frantic fire leaping higher higher higher with a desperate desire and a resolute endeavor now now to sit or never by the side of the pale faced moon oh the bells bells bells what a tale their terror tells of despair how they cling and clash and roar what a horror they outpour on the bosom of the palpitating air yet the year it fully knows by the twanging and the clanging how the danger ebbs and flows yet the year distinctly tells and the jangling and the wrangling how the danger sinks and swells by the sinking or the swelling and the anger of the bells of the bells of the bells bells bells bells bells bells bells in the clamor and the clanger of the bells hear the tolling of the bells iron bells What a world of solemn thought their monody compels. In the silence of the night how we shiver with a fright at the melancholy menace of their tone. For every sound that floats from the rust within their throats is a groan. And the people, ah, the people, they that dwell up in the steeple all alone, And who tolling, tolling, tolling, in that muffled monotone, Feel a glory in so rolling on the human heart of stone. They are neither man nor woman, they are neither brute nor human, They are ghouls, and their king it is who tolls, And he rolls, rolls, rolls, rolls a peon from the bells, And his merry bosom swells with a peon of the bells, And he dances, and he yells, keeping time, time, time, In a sort of runic rhyme to the peon of the bells, Of the bells, keeping time, time, time, In a sort of runic rhyme to the throbbing of the bells, Of the bells, bells, bells, to the sobbing of the bells, Keeping time, time, time, as he knells, knells, In a happy runic rhyme to the rolling of the bells, Of the bells, bells, bells, to the tolling of the bells, of the bells, bells, bells, bells, bells, bells, bells, to the moaning and the groaning of the bells. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Ulla Loom by Edgar Allan Poe Red for LibriVox.org by Adrienne Stevens The skies they were ashen and sober The leaves they were crisped and sear The leaves they were withering and sear It was night in the lonesome October Of my most immemorial year It was hard by the dim lake of Alba In the misty mid-region of Weir It was down by the dank tarn of Alba In the ghoul-haunted woodland of Weir Here once through an alley titanic Of Cyprus I roamed with my soul Of Cyprus with Psyche my soul These were days when my heart was volcanic As the scoriac rivers that roll As the lavas that restlessly roll Their sulfurous currents down Yannick In the ultimate climes of the pole That groan as they roll down Mount Yannick In the realms of the boreal pole Our talk had been serious and sober But I thought they were pulsed and sear Our memories were treacherous and sear 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 Alba Though once we had journeyed down here Remembered not the dark tarn of the Alba Nor the ghoul-haunted woodland of Weir And now as the night was senacent And Stardire's pointed to mourn As the sundire's hinted of mourn At the end of our path a lequecent A nebulous luster was born Out of which a miraculous crescent Arows with a duplicate horn As Stardire's bediamond crescent Distinct with its duplicate horn And I said she is warmer than Dianne She rolls through an aether of size She revels in a region of size She has seen that the tears are not dry On those cheeks where the worm never dies And has come past the stars of the lion To point us the path to the skies To the lethian peace of the skies Come up in despite 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 mistrust Her pallor I strangely mistrust O hasten, O let us not linger O fly, let us fly for we must In terror she spoke Letting sink her wings Till they trailed in the dust In agony sobbed Letting sink her plumes Till they trailed in the dust Till 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 cibillic splendor is beaming With hope and in beauty tonight See, it flickers up the sky through the night Are 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 gloom And conquered her scruples and gloom And we passed to the end of a vista But were stopped by the door of a tomb By the door of a legended tomb And I said, what is written, sweet sister, On the door of this legended tomb? She replied, Ulalum, Ulalum, it is the vault of thy lost Ulalum Then my heart it grew ashen and sober As the leaves that were crisped and sear As the leaves that were withering and sear And I cried, it was surely October On this very night of last year That I'd churn it, I'd churn it down here That I brought a dread burden down here On this night of all nights in the year, Oh, what demon has tempted me here? Well, I know now this dim lake of Alba This misty mid-region of Weir Well, I know now this dark town of Alba This ghoul-haunted woodland of Weir End of poem, this recording is in the public domain To Helen by Edgar Allen Poe, read for LibriVox.org by Preeti Siddhu 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 of full-orbed moon That, like thine own soul, soaring, Sawt 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 upturned faces of these roses That gave out, in return for the love-light, Their odorous souls in an ecstatic death Fell on the upturned 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 upturned faces of the roses And on thine own upturned, 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 the garden gate To breathe the incense of those slumbering roses No footsteps stirred The hated world all slept Save only thee and me O heaven, O 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 luster 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 odours 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 wildheart histories seemed to lie unwritten 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 Diane sank from sight into a western couch of thundercloud 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 illumined and in kindle 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 End of poem This recording is in the public domain Annabelle Lee By Egger Allen Poe Read for Libervox.org 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 Annabelle 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 Annabelle 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 Shilling my beautiful Annabelle Lee So that her high-born kinsmen came And bore her away from me To shut her up in a sepulcher 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 Shilling and killing My Annabelle 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 disever my soul From the soul of the beautiful Annabelle Lee For the moon never beams Without bringing me dreams of the beautiful Annabelle Lee And the stars never rise But I see the bright eyes of the beautiful Annabelle Lee And so all the night tied I lie down by the side of my darling My darling My life and my bride In her sepulcher there by the sea In her tomb by the side of the sea End of poem This recording is in the public domain A Valentine by Edgar Allen Poe Read for Librivox.org by Phil Shempf For her this rhyme is penned, whose luminous eyes Brightly expressive as the twins of Lita Shall find her own sweet name That nestling lies upon the page and wrapped from every reader Search narrowly the lines They hold a treasure divine, a talisman, an annulet that must be worn at heart Search well the measure The words, the syllables Do not forget the tribulest point Or you may lose your labour And yet there is in this no Gordian knot Which one might not undo without a sabre If one could merely comprehend the plot And written upon the leaf Where now are peering eyes scintillating soul There lie perdues Three eloquent words off uttered in the hearing of poets by poets As the name is a poet's too Its letters, although naturally lying like the night 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 End of poem This recording is in the public domain An Enigma by Edgar Allen Poe Read for LibriVox.org by Phil Shempf Sildom we find, says Solomon Don Dunce Half an idea in the profoundest sonnet Through all the flimsy things we see it once as easily as through a Naples bonnet Trash of all trash How can a lady don it? Yet heavier far than your patrarchan stuff Owl downing nonsense That the faintest puff twirls into trump paper The while you con it And veritably Saul is right enough The general tucker manatees are errant bubbles Of femoral and so transparent But this is, now, you may depend on it Stable, opaque, immortal All by dint of the dear names that lie conceal within End of poem This recording is in the public domain To My Mother by Edgar Allen Poe Read for LibriVox.org Because I feel that in the heavens above The angels whispering to one another Can find among their burning terms of love None so devotional as that of Mother Therefore by that dear name I longed have called you You who are more than Mother unto Me And fill my heart of hearts Where death installed you In setting my Virginia spirit free My Mother My own Mother Who died early Was but the Mother of Myself But you are Mother to the one I loved so dearly And thus our dearer than the Mother I knew By that infinity with which my wife was dearer To my soul than its soul life End of poem This recording is in the public domain For Annie by Edgar Allen Poe Read for LibriVox.org Thank heaven the crisis the danger is past And the lingering illness is over at last And the fever called living is conquered at last Sadly I know I am shorn of my strength And no muscle I move as I lie at full length But no matter I feel I am better at length And I rest so composedly now in my bed That any beholder might fancy me dead Might start at beholding me thinking me dead The moaning and groaning The sighing and sobbing are quieted now With that horrible throbbing at heart Ah that horrible horrible throbbing The sickness, the nausea, the pitiless pain Have ceased with the fever that maddened my brain With the fever called living that burned in my brain And oh of all tortures that torture the worst has abated The terrible torture of thirst For the naftaline river of passion accursed I have drank of a water that quenches all thirst Of a water that flows with a lullaby sound From a spring but a very few feet underground From a cavern not very far down underground And ah let it never be foolishly said that my room It is gloomy and narrow my bed For man never slept in a different bed And to sleep you must slumber in just such a bed My tantalized spirit here blandly reposes Forgetting or never regretting its roses Its old agitations of myrtles and roses For now while so quietly lying It fancies a holier older about it Of pansies a rosemary older Commingled with pansies with roux and the beautiful puritan pansies And so it lies happily Bailing in many a dream of the truth And the beauty of Annie drowned in a bath of the tresses of Annie She tenderly kissed me, she fondly caressed And then I fell gently to sleep on her breast Deeply to sleep from the heaven of her breast When the light was extinguished she covered me warm And she prayed to the angels to keep me from harm To the queen of the angels to shield me from harm And I lie so composedly now in my bed Knowing her love that you fancy me dead And I rest so contentedly now in my bed With her love at my breast That you fancy me dead That you shudder to look at me Thinking me dead But my heart it is brighter than all of the many stars in the sky For it sparkles with Annie It glows with the light of the love of my Annie With the thought of the light of the eyes of my Annie End of poem This recording is in the public domain 2F by Edgar Allen Poe Read for LibriVox.org by Mike Overby Midland Washington Beloved amid the earnest woes that crowd around my earthly path Driller 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 And thus my memory is to me like some enchanted far-off isle In some tumultuous sea, some ocean throbbing far and free With storm but where meanwhile Serena's skies continually Just o'er that one bright inland smile 1845 End of poem This recording is in the public domain 2F by Edgar Allen Poe Read for LibriVox.org by Bruce Gachuk 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 End of poem This recording is in the public domain El Dorado by Edgar Allen Poe Read for LibriVox.org by Larry Wilson Gailey bedight a gallant night in sunshine and in shadow Had journeyed long singing a song in search of El Dorado But he grew old this night so bold And o'er his heart a shadow fell As he found no spot of ground That looked like El Dorado And as his strength failed him at length He met a pilgrim shadow Shadow said he Where can it be this land of El Dorado? Over the mountains of the moon Down the valley of the shadow Ride, boldly ride The shade replied If you seek for El Dorado End of poem This recording is in the public domain Eulily by Edgar Allen Poe Read for LibriVox.org by Preeti Siddhu I dwelt alone in a world of moan And my soul was a stagnant tide Till the fair and gentle Eulily Became my blushing bride Till the yellow-haired young Eulily Became my smiling bride Ah, less, less bright the stars of the night Than the eyes of the radiant girl And never a flake that the vapor can make With the moon-tents of purple and pearl Can vie with the modest Eulily's most unregarded curl Can compare with the bright-eyed Eulily's Most humble and careless curl Now doubt, now pain come never again For her soul gives me sigh for sigh An all-day long shines bright and strong A starte within the sky While ever to her dear Eulily Upturns her matron eye While ever to her young Eulily Upturns her violet eye End of poem This recording is in the public domain A Dream Within a Dream by Edgar Allen Poe Read for LibriVox.org by Larry Wilson Take this kiss upon the brow And imparting from you now Thus much let me avow You are not wrong who deemed 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 less gone All that we see or seem Is but a dream within a dream I stand amid the roar Of a surf-tormented 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 Oh God, can I not grasp them With a tighter clasp? Oh God, can I not save one From the pitiless wave? Is all that we see or seem But a dream within a dream End of poem This recording is in the public domain Marie Louise Show By Edgar Allen Poe Read for LibriVox.org by Bruce Kachok 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 despairs on hallowed bed Lying down to die Have suddenly arisen at thy soft murmured words Let there be light At thy soft murmured words that were fulfilled In thy seraphic glancing of thine eyes Of all who owe thee most Whose gratitude nearest resembles worship O 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 End of poem This recording is in the public domain 2 To Marie Louise Show By Edgar Allan Poe Read for LibriVox.org by Bruce Gachuk Not long ago, the writer of these lines In the mad pride of intellectuality Maintained the power of words Denied that ever a thought arose within the human brain Beyond the utterance of the human tongue And now, as if in mockery of that boast Two words, two foreign soft decilibles Italian tones Made only to be murmured by angels Dreaming in the moonlit dew That hangs like chains of pearl on Herman Hill Have stirred from out the abysses of his heart Unthought like thoughts That are the souls of thought Richer, far wilder, far diviner visions Than even the seraph harper is Raphael Who has the sweetest voice of all God's creatures Could hope to utter And I, my spells are broken The pen falls powerless from my shivering hand With thy dear name as text Though hidden by thee I cannot write, I cannot speak or think Alas, I cannot feel For tis not feeling The standing motionless upon the golden threshold Of the wide open gate of dreams Gazing entranced down the gorgeous vista And thrilling as I see Upon the right, upon the left And all the way along Amid impurpled vapours far away To where the prospect terminates The only end of poem This recording is in the public domain The City in the Sea by Edgar Allan Poe Read for leupervox.org by Neema Low 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 Their shrines and palaces and towers Time eating towers and 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 night time of that town But light from out the lurid sea Streams up the turrets silently Blames up the pinnacles far and free Up domes, up spires, up kingly halls Up veins, up Babylon-like walls Up shadowy long forgotten bowers Of sculptured ivy and stone flowers Up many and many a marvelous shrine Whose wreathed freezes intertwine The veal, 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 Or from a proud tower in the town Death looks gigantically down There open fangs and gaping graves Yon level with luminous waves But not the riches there that lie In each idol's time and die Not the gaily-jeweled dead Tempt the waters from their bed For no ripples curl alas Along the wilderness of glass No swellings tell that winds may be Upon some far-off happier sea No heavings hint that winds have been On seas less hideously serene But blow, a stir is in the air The wave, there's a movement there As if the towers had thrust aside And slightly sinking the dull tide As if their tops had feebly given A void within the filmy heaven The waves have now redder glow The hours are breathing faint and low And when amid no earthly moans Down, down the town shall settle hence Hell rising from a thousand thrones Shall do it reverence End poem This recording is in the public domain The Sleeper by Edgar Allen Poe Read for LibriVox.org by Larry Wilson At midnight in the month of June I stand beneath the mystic moon An opiate vapor, dewy dim Excels from out her golden rim And softly dripping drop by drop Upon the quiet mountaintop Steals drowsily and musically Into the universal valley The rosemary nods upon the grave The lily lulls upon the wave Wrapping the fog about its breast The ruined molders into rest Looking like lethy sea The lake, a conscious slumber Seems to take and would not For the world awake All beauty sleeps And lo, where lies her casement Open to the skies Irene with her destinies Oh, Lady Bright, can it be right? This window open to the night? The wanton airs from the treetop Laughingly through the lattice drop The bodiless airs a wizard route Flip through thy chamber in and out And wave the curtain canopy so fitfully So fearfully Above the closed infringed lid Neath which thy slumbering soul lies ahead Let o'er the floor and down the wall Like ghosts the shadows rise and fall Oh, Lady Dear, house thou no fear? Why and what art thou dreamin' here? Sure thou art come or far off seas A wonder to these garden trees Strange is thy pallor, strange thy dress Strange above all thy length of tress And this all solemn silentness The Lady sleeps Oh, may her sleep which is enduring So be deep Heaven have her in its sacred keep This chamber chains for one more holy This bed for one more melancholy I pray to God that she may lie forever With unopened eye While the dim sheeted ghosts go by My love, she sleeps Oh, may her sleep as it is lasting So be deep Soft may the worms about her creep Far in the forest dim and old For her may some tall vault unfold Some vault that oft hath flung its black And winged panels fluttering back Triumphant o'er the crested paws Of her grand family funerals Some sepulcher remote alone Against whose portals she hath thrown In childhood many an idle stone Some tomb from out whose sounding door She ne'er shall force an echo more Thrilling to think poor child has sin It was the dead who groan'd within End of poem This recording is in the public domain Bridal Ballad By Egger Allen Poe Read for Libbervox.org The ring is on my hand And the reef is on my brow Satins and jewels grand Are all at my command And I am happy now And my lord he loves me well But when first he breathed His vow I felt my bosom swell For the words rang as a knell And the voice seemed his who fell In the battle down the dell And who is happy now But he spoke to reassure me And he kissed my pallid brow While a reverie came o'er me And to the churchyard o'er me And I sighed to him before me Thinking him dead delor me Oh, I am happy now And thus the words were spoken And thus the plighted vow And though my faith be broken And though my heart be broken Behold the golden keys That proves me happy now Would to God I could awaken For I dream I know not how And my soul is sorely shaken Lest an evil step be taken Lest the dead who is forsaken May not be happy now End of poem This recording is in the public domain