t 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 borrowFrom my books surcease of sorrow - sorrow for the lost Lenore -For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels named Lenore -Nameless here for evermore.And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtainThrilled 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 darkness 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 beingEver yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door -Bird or beast above the sculptured bust above his chamber door,With such name as `Nevermore.'But the raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only,That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.Nothing further then he uttered - not a feather then he fluttered -Till I scarcely more than muttered `Other friends have flown before -On the morrow he will leave me, as my hopes have flown before.'Then the bird said, `Nevermore.'Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,`Doubtless,' said I, `what it utters is its only stock and store,Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful disasterFollowed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore -Till the dirges of his hope that melancholy burden boreOf "Never-nevermore."'But the raven still beguiling all my sad soul 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 linkingFancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore -What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yoreMeant in croaking `Nevermore.'This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressingTo the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom's core;This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease recliningOn 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 censerSwung by Seraphim whose foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor.`Wretch,' I cried, `thy God hath lent thee - by these angels he has sent theeRespite - 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 named Lenore -Clasp a rare and radiant maiden, whom the angels named 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 sittingOn 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 floorShall be lifted - nevermore!The author paints pictures with words, but that picture is not limited his words. He stimulates our sense of sight, smell, sound, touch, in this poem. Poe also uses repetition In this poem. ( “Nevermore!” ) Poe uses dialogue in the poem to give us background knowledge on the characters. I believe the poet uses repetition well in this poem. He also does a great job describing the scenery. I believe the author could have written the poem so that it would be more understanding for students; however Given the time the poem was written this is standard English. I would use this book in my classroom to teach students how to write descriptive poems or stories. The author uses so much needed details in this poem. I would introduce the poem with the descriptive words and later with out the descriptive words to show the students how important the descriptive words are. I will also teach my student show to include repetition in their writing. This will help their works become more powerful.
Edgar Allan Poe was probably the first writer to truly fascinate me. I remember reading "The Black Cat" and "The Tell Tale Heart" as a youngster and feeling as excited as I felt when watching a classic horror movie like "Dracula" or "King Kong." I'd never read anything like Poe, and I couldn't stop until I'd read all his stories. As an adult, I still enjoy Poe's stories, but understand that he had weaknesses as a writer (little characterization, sense of morbidity and foreboding that demands a finish that often isn't delivered). I think Poe's poetry holds up a little better; the best of his work is as memorable as anything from Keats or Byron. Poe lived the "starving writer" life like no other writer ever did. He was a walking tragedy, haunted by all the dead women in his past, which he pined for so pitifully in his poetry. Living with his mother-in-law after his very, very young wife (a cousin he married when she was 13) died prematurely, Poe barely made enough money to survive, mostly as a critic (he was one of the first celebrated literary critics). Edgar Allan Poe is one of the greatest literary figures of all time, popularizing morbid tales of horror and inventing the detective story. His strange, unexplained death just adds to his fascinating legacy. His works should be read by everyone.
Do You like book The Complete Stories And Poems (1984)?
The Master himselfIt was many and many a year ago,tIn a kingdom by the sea,That a maiden there lived whom you may knowtBy the name of ANNABEL LEEAnd this maiden she lived with no other thoughttThan to love and be loved by me.I was a child and she was a child,tIn this kingdom by the sea;But we loved with a love that was more than love-tI and my ANNABEL LEE;With a love that the winged seraphs of heaven tCoveted her and me.And this was the reason that, long ago,tIn this kingdom by the sea,A wind blew out of a cloud, chillingtMy beautiful ANNABEL LEESo that her high-born kinsmen cametAnd bore her away from me,To shut her up in a sepulchretIn this kingdom by the sea.The angels, not half so happy in heaven,tWent envying her and me-Yes!- that was the reason ( as all men know,tIn this kingdom by the sea)That the wind came out of the cloud by night,tChilling and killing my ANNABEL LEE.But our love it was stronger by far than the lovetOf those who were older than we-tOf many far wiser than we-And neither the angels in heaven above,Nor the demons down under the sea,Can ever dissever my soul from the soultOf the beautiful ANNABEL LEE,For the moon never beams, without bringing me dreamstOf the beautiful ANNABEL LEE;And the stars never rise, but I feel the bright eyestOf the beautiful ANNABEL LEE;And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the sideOf my darling-my darling- my life and my bride,tIn the sepulchre there by the sea,tIn her tomb by the sounding sea.Quoth the Raven, “Nevermore.”
—Arah-Lynda
I've read some of these stories. I haven't actually read them in THIS edition. I've generally read them in a multi-volume edition published in the 19th century. They certainly printed durable volumes then. The pages had twilight-blue borders. Among the stories I've read are:"The Murders In The Rue Morgue""The Tell-Tale Heart""The Black Cat""The Cask of Amontillado""The Masque of the Red Death."Poe is entertaining. On top of this, he was an innovator. He not only, essentially, invented the detective story ("Murders In The Rue Morgue") but he pretty much created the short story itself.He was also a tremendous critic. His criticism shows his urbane side.Poe is not deep.
—Frederick
How could I not love this book? Shortly after reading Poe's complete works as a teenager, my family was transferred to Fort Monroe in southern Virginia. While waiting for permanent housing, I ended up staying in the house (and the very bedroom) that Poe had been in while he served on the base. Pulling out this book and reading it in the very space where Poe had suffered through depression and anxiety was exhilarating. While I realized the morbid nature of my glee, it somehow seemed appropriate as I lay awake at nights praying to hear that telltale ticking.As an adult, I have come to realize that my love of Poe's horror comes from the fact that he focuses not on the gore on modern horror, but rather on the shocking indelicacy of human potential. I sometimes think of him as the Gothic forefather of Anthony Robbins.
—Mark
