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Why should you read Edgar Allan Poe? - Scott Peeples

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A Dream Within a Dream by Edgar Allan Poe | Poetry Foundation

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

Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore-

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

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

"'Tis some visitor," I muttered, "tapping at my chamber door-

Only this and nothing more."

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

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

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

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

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

Nameless here for evermore.

And the silken, sad, uncertain rustling of each purple curtain

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

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

"'Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door-

Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door;-

This it is and nothing more."

Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,

"Sir," said I, "or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;

But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,

And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door,

That I scarce was sure I heard you"-here I opened wide the door;-

Darkness there and nothing more.

Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,

Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before;

But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token,

And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, "Lenore?"

This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, "Lenore!"-

Merely this and nothing more.

Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,

Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before.

"Surely," said I, "surely that is something at my window lattice;

Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore-

Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore;-

'Tis the wind and nothing more!"

Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,

In there stepped a stately Raven of the saintly days of yore;

Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he;

But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door-

Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door-

Perched, and sat, and nothing more.

Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,

By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore,

"Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou," I said, "art sure no craven,

Ghastly grim and ancient Raven wandering from the Nightly shore-

Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night's Plutonian shore!"

Quoth the Raven "Nevermore."

Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,

Though its answer little meaning-little relevancy bore;

For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being

Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door-

Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door,

With such name as "Nevermore."

But the Raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only

That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.

Nothing farther then he uttered-not a feather then he fluttered-

Till I scarcely more than muttered "Other friends have flown before-

On the morrow he will leave me, as my Hopes have flown before."

Then the bird said "Nevermore."

Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,

"Doubtless," said I, "what it utters is its only stock and store

Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful Disaster

Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore-

Till the dirges of his Hope that melancholy burden bore

But the Raven still beguiling all my fancy into smiling,

Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird, and bust and door;

Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking

Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore-

What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore

Meant in croaking "Nevermore."

This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing

To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom's core;

This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining

On the cushion's velvet lining that the lamp-light gloated o'er,

But whose velvet-violet lining with the lamp-light gloating o'er,

She shall press, ah, nevermore!

Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer

Swung by Seraphim whose foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor.

"Wretch," I cried, "thy God hath lent thee-by these angels he hath sent thee

Respite-respite and nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore;

Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe and forget this lost Lenore!"

Quoth the Raven "Nevermore."

"Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil!-prophet still, if bird or devil!-

Whether Tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,

Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted-

On this home by Horror haunted-tell me truly, I implore-

Is there- is there balm in Gilead?-tell me-tell me, I implore!"

Quoth the Raven "Nevermore."

"Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil!-prophet still, if bird or devil!

By that Heaven that bends above us-by that God we both adore-

Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn,

It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore-

Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore."

Quoth the Raven "Nevermore."

"Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!" I shrieked, upstarting-

"Get thee back into the tempest and the Night's Plutonian shore!

Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!

Leave my loneliness unbroken!-quit the bust above my door!

Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!"

Quoth the Raven "Nevermore."

And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting

On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;

And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming,

And the lamp-light o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;

And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor

Shall be lifted-nevermore!

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The Raven by Edgar Allan Poe | Poetry Foundation

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

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At midnight, in the month of June,

I stand beneath the mystic moon.

An opiate vapor, dewy, dim,

Exhales from out her golden rim,

And softly dripping, drop by drop,

Upon the quiet mountain top,

Steals drowsily and musically

Into the universal valley.

The rosemary nods upon the grave;

The lily lolls upon the wave;

Wrapping the fog about its breast,

The ruin moulders into rest;

Looking like Lethe, see! the lake

A conscious slumber seems to take,

And would not, for the world, awake.

All Beauty sleeps!-and lo! where lies

Irene, with her Destinies!

Oh, lady bright! can it be right-

This window open to the night?

The wanton airs, from the tree-top,

Laughingly through the lattice drop-

The bodiless airs, a wizard rout,

Flit through thy chamber in and out,

And wave the curtain canopy

So fitfully-so fearfully-

Above the closed and fringéd lid

'Neath which thy slumb'ring soul lies hid,

That, o'er the floor and down the wall,

Like ghosts the shadows rise and fall!

Oh, lady dear, hast thou no fear?

Why and what art thou dreaming here?

Sure thou art come o'er 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 changed for one more holy,

This bed for one more melancholy,

I pray to God that she may lie

Forever with unopened eye,

While the pale 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 wingéd pannels fluttering back,

Triumphant, o'er the crested palls

Of her grand family funerals-

Some sepulchre, 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 of sin!

It was the dead who groaned within.

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The Sleeper by Edgar Allan Poe | Poetry Foundation

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At midnight, in the month of June, I stand beneath the mystic moon. An opiate vapor, dewy, dim, Exhales from out her golden rim, And softly dripping, drop by drop, Upon the quiet mountain top, Steals drowsily and musically Into the universal valley.

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1Take this kiss upon the brow!

2And, in parting from you now,

3Thus much let me avow -

4You are not wrong, who deem

5That my days have been a dream;

6Yet if hope has flown away

7In a night, or in a day,

8In a vision, or in none,

9Is it therefore the less gone?

10 All that we see or seem

11Is but a dream within a dream.

12I stand amid the roar

13Of a surf-tormented shore,

14And I hold within my hand

15Grains of the golden sand -

16How few! yet how they creep

17Through my fingers to the deep,

18While I weep - while I weep!

19O God! Can I not grasp

20Them with a tighter clasp?

21O God! can I not save

22 One from the pitiless wave?

23Is all that we see or seem

24But a dream within a dream?

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1Take this kiss upon the brow! 2And, in parting from you now, 3Thus much let me avow - 4You are not wrong, who deem 5That my days have been a dream; 6Yet if hope has flown away 7In a night, or in a day, 8In a vision, or in none, 9Is it therefore the less gone?

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Poetry became my passion after I fell in love with Walter de la Mare's "Silver" in Mrs. Edna Pickett's sophomore English class circa 1962.
Edgar Allan Poe

Introduction and Text of "The Sleeper"

Edgar Allan Poe remarked about his poem, "The Sleeper," "[i]n the higher qualities of poetry, it is better than 'The Raven'-but there is not one man in a million who could be brought to agree with me in this opinion" (" Poe as a Poet"). This poem, which symbolically refers to death as "sleep," consists of three movements, constructed primarily of couplets and tercets.

The Sleeper

The lady sleeps! Oh, may her sleep,
Which is enduring, so be deep!
Heaven have her in its sacred keep!
This chamber changed for one more holy,
This bed for one more melancholy,
I pray to God that she may lie
Forever with unopened eye,
While the pale 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 wingéd pannels fluttering back,
Triumphant, o'er the crested palls
Of her grand family funerals-

Some sepulchre, 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 of sin!
It was the dead who groaned within.

Reading of "The Sleeper"

Commentary

Edgar Allan Poe's "The Sleeper" takes as its subject a beautiful woman in death, the subject that Poe claimed in his essay, "The Philosophy of Composition," to be the most poetic.
First Movement: Observation in a Cemetery
The speaker begins by elucidating the confines of his immediate environment: he is standing in a cemetery at midnight in June observing the moon, which he calls "the mystic moon" and then asserts that the orb "exhales" "[a]n opiate vapour, dewy, dim" from "her golden rim." The mixed metaphor here shocks the senses with the attempt to personify the moon while simultaneously allowing it to keep its "rim." The speaker then remarks about the "rosemary" that is nodding over a grave, while a lily is lolling on a wave. Poe is jingling as usual! Wrapping up the movement, the speaker introduces the beautiful, dead woman whom he will portray, who "lies / With casement open to the skies, / Irene with her destinies!"
Second Movement: The Beautiful, Dead Lady
The speaker then addresses the beautiful, dead lady, asking her, "O, lady bright, can it be right, / This lattice open to the night?" He wonders if the opening to the tomb is appropriate; it motivates him to imagine the dead body within, however, as the wind rustles "the curtain-canopy." The speaker strangely refers to the dead body as a "slumbering soul." One would hope that he is using the term "soul" in its generic definition of "individual." If the literal soul were still within the body, it would not be dead. The very definition of death includes the fact that the soul has left the body. This flaw seriously damages the poem and the poet's credibility. If he gets such a basic fact so wrong, what other misinformation might he be asserting?

This error alone would cause those millions to disagree with Poe's estimation that this poem is superior to "The Raven." The remainder of the movement summons "ghosts" of shadows swept in by the wind that continues to rustle through the tomb. He asks the beautiful, dead lady, "O, lady dear, hast thou no fear?" And he wants to determine what she is dreaming. He oddly claims that she has arrived from "o'er far-off seas." Being a stranger to the area, she is "a wonder to these garden-trees!" Her "pallor," her style of clothing, the length of her hair, plus the sustained "all-solemn silentness," all make her an anomalous intruder.
Third Movement: Deep Sleep
The lady sleeps! Oh, may her sleep,
Which is enduring, so be deep!
Heaven have her in its sacred keep!
This chamber changed for one more holy,
This bed for one more melancholy,
I pray to God that she may lie
Forever with unopened eye,
While the pale 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 wingéd pannels fluttering back,
Triumphant, o'er the crested palls
Of her grand family funerals-

Some sepulchre, 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 of sin!
It was the dead who groaned within.

The speaker pushes his symbol of "sleep" for death to the limit in the third movement; he claims that the lady "sleeps," and he wishes for her a sleep, that "be deep!" But he also introduces an unusual wish as he asserts, "I pray to GOD that she may lie / Forever with unclosed eye!" After expressing this peculiar desire, he again pushes his "sleep" symbol: "My love, she sleeps. O, may her sleep, / As it is lasting, so be deep!" The speaker then recalls that "In childhood, many an idle stone" was thrown against the family sepulcher, and the dead within "groaned" because of the impolite intrusion on their sacred solemnity. He thus appropriately hopes that this beautiful, dead lady need not suffer such indignities.

Edgar Allan Poe - Commemorative Stamp

Life Sketch of Edgar Allan Poe

Edgar Allan Poe was labeled "The Jingle Man" because of the profusion of riming words employed in his poems. Likely, it was Ralph Waldo Emerson, who first assigned that appellation to Poe.

Introduction and Excerpt from "The Bells"

Edgar Allan Poe was born in Boston on January 19, 1809, and died on October 7, 1849, in Baltimore. His literary influence has been noted world wide. He excelled as a literary critic, and his short stories are credited with beginning the genre of detective fiction, as he is hailed as the father of mystery writing. But his poetry has received a mixed bag of critical reviews, often denigrating Poe's style. And too often his complicated and fitful life story has taken center stage before his poetry, which when thoughtfully considered does reveal more than the derisive status as a riming monster.
The Jingle Man
Poe was labeled "The Jingle Man" because of the profusion of riming words employed in his poems. Likely, it was Ralph Waldo Emerson, who first assigned that appellation to Poe; however, Walt Whitman also opined that Poe overworked rime as a poetic technique. Poe's poem, "The Bells," is undoubtedly the piece of work that led his contemporaries to label him the "jingle man."

Over the years, critics have often been dismissive of Poe, just as Emerson was:

. . . critical opinion of Poe's verse has been mixed. Ralph Waldo Emerson dismissed him as "The Jingle Man," Jorge Luis Borges called him "a miniature Tennyson," and Henry James grumbled that "an enthusiasm for Poe is the mark of a decidedly primitive state of reflection." T. S. Eliot conceded that Poe possessed a powerful intellect but asserted that it was "the intellect of a highly gifted person before puberty." W. B. Yeats liked a few lines but thought most of the oeuvre "vulgar and commonplace," and E. L. Doctorow compared "The Raven" to Ravel's "Bolero": "rhythmic and hypnotic on first hearing, a mere novelty everafter." (from John S. Sledge's " Defending 'The Jingle Man'")

Despite the numerous nay-sayers regarding Poe, his admirers have not been shy about proclaiming their affection for Poe's works, for example, William Carlos William asserted that the American literary canon is grounded in Poe only and "on solid ground." Stéphane Mallarmé and Charles Baudelaire were also big fans of Poe's writing.

( Please note: The spelling, "rhyme," was introduced into English by Dr. Samuel Johnson through an etymological error. For my explanation for using only the original form, please see " Rime vs Rhyme: An Unfortunate Error.")

Excerpt from "The Bells"

I

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 oversprinkle
All the heavens, seem to twinkle
With a crystalline delight;
Keeping time, time, time,
In a sort of Runic rime,
To the tintinnabulation that so musically wells
From the bells, bells, bells, bells,
Bells, bells, bells-
From the jingling and the tinkling of the bells. . . .

To read "The Bells" in its entirety and also see how it actually appears on the page, please visit The Academy of American Poets. The HubPages' word processing system does not allow non-traditional spacing.

The Philosophical Poem, "Eldorado"

Poe's "Eldorado" alludes to a legend that circulated popularly in the nineteenth century. Readers will notice again Poe's delight with rime, but certainly there is more to the poem than rime.

It becomes philosophically universal by the last stanza which reveals a bit of sage advice that the paradise, for which Eldorado is a metaphor, is found in the search, and one must "ride boldly" in order to reach that paradise.

Eldorado

Other Writing Genres

In most cases, it takes a long time for a literary reputation to be established. Although Poe's merit as a writer was debated in his own day, and still is in some quarters today, he has definitely taken his place as a writer of mystery.

Short Stories

Poe's short stories "The Gold Bug," "The Murders in the Rue Morgue," "The Mystery of Marie Rogêt," and "The Purloined Letter" all had a lasting effect on the mystery genre, and some credit Poe as the inventor of detective fiction.

Poe, like Thomas Hardy, considered himself primarily a poet and preferred writing poetry, but he found that he could make money writing prose, so, as Thomas Hardy turned to writing novels, Poe turned to writing short stories, and they both were able to bring in some income with their prose writing.

The Philosophy of Composition

Poe also wrote essays in literary criticism, and his " The Philosophy of Composition" reveals his favorite subject, or at least, the subject he considers most poetic: "the death, then, of a beautiful woman is, unquestionably, the most poetical topic in the world." This reasoning certainly helps account for his predilection for melancholy of the sort we find in "The Raven."

Despite Poe's reputation as the father of detective or mystery fiction, to experience the real Poe, readers must also experience his poetry and when they do, they will have to admit that he was much more than his contemporaries saw; he was much more profound than a mere "jingle man."

Poe and Drugs

So much has been made of Poe's alcohol and drug use that most people associate his addictions too closely with his art. Of course, many artists in all the arts have fallen victim to intoxicants and drug euphoria.

And it appears that the artist's life is always more interesting to the casual observer than is his/her art. As is the case with most sensitive artists who have had the misfortune to abuse artificial intoxication, Poe as a dark figure in literature is garnered more from his biography than from his actual writing.

Questions & Answers

Question: In Edgar Allan Poe's "The Sleeper," what are the "indignities," from which he hopes she does not suffer?

Answer: The speaker remembers that "In childhood, many an idle stone" was thrown against the family sepulcher, and the dead within "groaned" because of the impolite intrusion on their sacred solemnity. He, therefore, hopes that this special dead lady will not suffer from that intrusive stone-throwing.
© 2016 Linda Sue Grimes

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Poetry became my passion after I fell in love with Walter de la Mare's "Silver" in Mrs. Edna Pickett's sophomore English class circa 1962. Edgar Allan Poe remarked about his poem, "The Sleeper," "[i]n the higher qualities of poetry, it is better than 'The Raven'-but there is not one man in a million who could be brought to agree with me in this opinion" (" Poe as a Poet").

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Upon midnight, while the speaker is relaxing at his home, he is startled by a gentle knock on his door.

The speaker remembers the vivid memory of the death of his love, Lenore. He grieves for her loss and establishes that no individual with the name Lenore exists anymore.

While recalling Lenore, the speaker clearly hears the knock on his door and is scared out of his mind. He tries to comfort himself by telling himself that another person has come to just visit him.

The speaker finally finds the confidence to open the door. While sincerely apologizing to the individual knocking at his door, he opens his door, only to find that only darkness is there.

The speaker ponders who could have been knocking on his door. He starts believing that it might be Lenore and calls out to her in vain.

The speaker, greatly confused, closes the door shut and returns to his state of rest, only to hear more knocking on his door. By telling himself that he only hears sound produced by wind, he opens the door to his house once again.

The speaker finds a raven merely perched on a statue of the Greek goddess Athena above his door.

The speaker assumes that the raven is a messenger sent by the Roman God of the Underworld, Hades, and inquires it about its presence; however, the raven merely responds with "Nevermore" (48).

The speaker is baffled by the raven and admires its clear-cut response, despite it not being related to his question at all.

The speaker feels like the raven is putting all it has into muttering the only word it can. Starting to feel confused and intimidated, the speaker reasons that other creatures have flown to the same location before and left him, so the raven will also follow the trend and leave him alone after a short time. However, the bird unexpectedly states "Nevermore" (60) one more time.

The speaker is once again startled by the raven's response and reasons that it was tortured by its previous master and has simply come to tell its tale.

The raven continues to allude the speaker. He brings a chair to the location of the raven in order to ponder the meaning of the raven saying "Nevermore."

The speaker continues to guess the raven's purpose, but is unable to say a word to it. He continues to ponder in the comfort of his chair.

The speaker feels the air become denser and a perfume overtake it. He believes that he has been sent medicine from Heaven in order to forget the sorrow of losing Lenore. He embraces what he believes to be a gift, but the raven suddenly interrupts with "Nevermore" (84).

Confused by the raven's response, the speaker calls the raven a prophet and inquires whether there is any way to end his suffering at the hands of his memories of Lenore. The raven responds using "Nevermore" (90) again.

The speaker addresses the raven as a prophet once again and asks it whether or not he will be able to see Lenore again. The raven answers "Nevermore" (96).

The speaker finally loses his sanity and lashes out at the raven, demanding it to return to wherever it came from. Unfortunately, the raven uses "Nevermore" (102) to respond again.

The raven remains seated on Athena's statue above the speaker's chamber door. The speaker ends the poem by stating that his soul will never be able to escape the raven's presence.

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Upon midnight, while the speaker is relaxing at his home, he is startled by a gentle knock on his door. The speaker remembers the vivid memory of the death of his love, Lenore. He grieves for her loss and establishes that no individual with the name Lenore exists anymore.

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Mystery Of Edgar Allan Poe: Poet & Writer with Tragic Story | Full Documentary | Biography