Edgar Allan Poe

carolynn cobleigh

the lake

in youths spring it was my lot
to haunt of the wide earth a spot
the which i could not love the less
so lovely was the loneliness
of a wild lake of a black rock bound
and the tall pines that towered around

but when the night have thrown her pall
upon that spot as upon all
and the mystic wind went by
murmuring in melody
then--ah then i would awake
to the terror of the lone lake

Yet that terror was not fright,
But a tremulous delight--
A feeling not the jewelled mine
Could teach or bribe me to define--
Nor Love--although the Love were thine. Death was in that poisonous wave,
And in its gulf a fitting grave
For him who thence could solace bring
To his lone imagining--
Whose solitary soul could make
An Eden of that dim lake.

alone

From childhood’s hour I have not been

As others were—I have not seen

As others saw—I could not bring

My passions from a common spring—

From the same source I have not taken

My sorrow—I could not awaken

My heart to joy at the same tone—

And all I lov’d—I lov’d alone—

Then—in my childhood—in the dawn

Of a most stormy life—was drawn

From ev’ry depth of good and ill

The mystery which binds me still—

From the torrent, or the fountain—

From the red cliff of the mountain—

From the sun that ’round me roll’d

In its autumn tint of gold—

From the lightning in the sky

As it pass’d me flying by—

From the thunder, and the storm—

And the cloud that took the form

(When the rest of Heaven was blue)

Of a demon in my view—

the helen

Helen, thy beauty is to me

Like those Nicéan barks of yore,

That gently, o'er a perfumed sea,

The weary, way-worn wanderer bore

To his own native shore.


On desperate seas long wont to roam,

Thy hyacinth hair, thy classic face,

Thy Naiad airs have brought me home

To the glory that was Greece,

And the grandeur that was Rome.


Lo! in yon brilliant window-niche

How statue-like I see thee stand,

The agate lamp within thy hand!

Ah, Psyche, from the regions which

Are Holy-Land!

interresting facts

Edgar Allan Poe was born in Boston January 19, 1809 he wrote all sorts of poems and others things he died October 7, 1849 how he died unknown.

Edgar's mother was Elizabeth Arnold Poe
his mother died when he was just three years old
he also was obsessed with cats
SOME PEOPLE TOOK EDGAR IN AND RAISED HIM.