The Raven

Poems and Essays on Poetry

Edgar Allan Poe, C.H. Sisson, C. H. Sisson, C.H. Sisson

• Publisher: Fyfield Books
• Year: 2012
• Print ISBN: 9781847771704
• eBook ISBN: 9781847776518
• Topic: Literature
• Subtopic: Literary Criticism in Poetry
• Index: Literature

Edgar Allan Poe (1809-1849) is the poet of the night world, of the inexplicable, the uncanny. His poems do not analyse, they do not explain: 'they exist with the intensity of hallucinations'. In the breathtakingly seductive beauty of To Helen - 'Like those Nicéan barks of yore, / that gently o'er a perfumed sea...', or the claustrophobic horror of The Raven, Poe offers haunting alternative realities, as strange - and strangely familiar - as our dreams and nightmares. Yet Poe was more than a poet of American gothic. He was translated by Baudelaire and Mallarmé, becoming a key figure in French Symbolism; he was an influential critic. This edition contains all Poe's poetry and his three most important essays. With an introduction by the poet C.H. Sisson, it is an indispensable collection of the work of one of the nineteenth century's most compelling and original poets.

POEMS

To Helen

Helen, thy beauty is to me

Like those Nicéan barks of yore,

That gently, o’er a perfumed sea,

The weary, wayworn 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!

The Raven

Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,

Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore,

While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,

As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.

‘’Tis some visiter,’ I muttered, ‘tapping at my chamber door –

Only this, and nothing more.’

Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December,

And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.

Eagerly I wished the morrow; – vainly I had sought to borrow

From my books surcease of sorrow – sorrow for the lost Lenore –

For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore –

Nameless here for evermore.

And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtain

Thrilled me – filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;

So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating

‘’Tis some visiter entreating entrance at my chamber door –

Some late visiter 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 statel...

Table of contents

• Cover
• Title Page
• Epigraph
• Contents
• Introduction
• POEMS
• POEMS WRITTEN IN YOUTH
• LATER POEMS
• ESSAYS ON POETRY
• About the Author
• Copyright