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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

Of ‘Never—nevermore’.”

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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Edgar Allan Poe, www.biography.com/people/Edgar-Allan-Poe-9443160
Published: October 27, 2016, www.biography.com, Accessed 6 April, 2017

The Raven, www.poetryfoundation.org/poems-and-poets/poems/detail/48860
www.Poetryfoundation.org, Accessed 6 April, 2017

The Haunted Palace, www.poetryfoundation.org/poems-and-poets/poems/detail/52370
www.PoetryFoundation.org, Accessed 6 April, 2017

The Raven, https://www.owleyes.org/text/raven/analysis/historical-context
www.owleyes.org, Accessed 6 April, 2017

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"The Haunted Palace" was about a once beautiful palace. However, time took its toll and the palace began to break down, eventually it was no longer a palace, far from it. The horrible things that happened to that palace made it seem like it really was haunted. Strange and mysterious things happened there without explanation. The theme of this poem is madness. Without order there is madness and when there is madness anything can happpen and nothing is safe. The context of this is how this once beautiful palace compares to the human mind. If a human goes mad, there no controlling their actions, if society goes mad there's nothing stopping the madness and chaos.

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When Poe wrote "The Raven" he was trying to make a living for himself as a poet which was very rare in this time period. Realeased in 1845 "The Raven" was in many New York Newspapers, it made Poe famous, however he did not gain the financial stability that he had hoped for. As a result many parodies of "The Raven" were created over time. The theme of "The Raven" is undying devotion, loss, and the lingerin grief cannot be diminished. This was written follow the death of the author's lover. The author created the raven to express his emotion and to show what he is going through. But he also created it so the audience could learn and find their own meaning and connections to this text. To show that others who are going through a rough time are not alone.

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Imagery -  the descriptive language used in literature to recreate sensory experiences relating to sight, taste, touch, hearing and smell. "Banners yellow, glorious, golden" (Poe, 9-10)  The author describes a golden flag on the house, the bright flag easily stands out from the rest of the dark mysterious house.

Mood - the feeling created in the reader by a literary work or passage. "While, like a ghastly rapid river, through the pale door a hideous thorng rush out forever, and laugh - but smile no more." (Poe, 45-48) the mood of the poem is depressing and glooming, the author uses words like "ghastly" and "hideous" to support the mood.
Personification - a nonhuman object is given human characterisics. "And every gentle air that dallied,

In that sweet day," (Poe, 13-14) Here is says the air moved slowly, while moving is a human chracteristic but the wind in nonhuman.

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Repitition - a technique in which a sound, word, phrase, or line is repeated for emphasis or unity. At the end almost all of the stanzas it ends in "nothing more" or "Nevermore" (Poe, Lines 6,18,24,30,36,42,48,54,60,66,72,78,84,90,96,102,108) The author does this to show only certain events happen at a certain point, nothing more, nothin less.
Simile - a figure of speech that compares two things that are basically unlike yet have something in common using "like or "as"  "On the morrow he will leave me, as my hopes have flown before." (Poe, lines 59-60) Poe is talking about the raven that he has seen and seemingly has become attachted to, however he knows by the nextt day the raven will be gone forever, and he compares it to his hopes in dreams which apparently have be lost.
Symbol - is a person, place, object or activity that stands for something beyond itself. "What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore

Meant in croaking 'Nevermore'.” (Poe, Lines 71-72) A raven tends to symbolize death. In this quote the raven is mysterious and suspicious, watching and staring from a distance. Making the settting uncomfortable, just like how death makes others uncomfortable.

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In the greenest of our valleys

By good angels tenanted,

Once a fair and stately palace—

Radiant palace—reared its head.

In the monarch Thought’s dominion,

It stood there!

Never seraph spread a pinion

Over fabric half so fair!

Banners yellow, glorious, golden,

On its roof did float and flow

(This—all this—was in the olden

Time long ago)

And every gentle air that dallied,

In that sweet day,

Along the ramparts plumed and pallid,

A wingèd odor went away.

Wanderers in that happy valley,

Through two luminous windows, saw

Spirits moving musically

To a lute’s well-tunèd law,

Round about a throne where, sitting,

Porphyrogene!

In state his glory well befitting,

The ruler of the realm was seen.

And all with pearl and ruby glowing

Was the fair palace door,

Through which came flowing, flowing, flowing

And sparkling evermore,

A troop of Echoes, whose sweet duty

Was but to sing,

In voices of surpassing beauty,

The wit and wisdom of their king.

But evil things, in robes of sorrow,

Assailed the monarch’s high estate;

(Ah, let us mourn!—for never morrow

Shall dawn upon him, desolate!)

And round about his home the glory

That blushed and bloomed

Is but a dim-remembered story

Of the old time entombed.

And travellers, now, within that valley,

Through the red-litten windows see

Vast forms that move fantastically

To a discordant melody;

While, like a ghastly rapid river,

Through the pale door

A hideous throng rush out forever,

And laugh—but smile no more.

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Edgar Allen Poe was born on January 19th, 1809 in Boston, Massachusets. Most of Edgar's pieces are mystereriously dark and gloomy, which could be due to his childhood. Edgar's father left his family when Edgar was very young, and his mother passed away from tuburculosis when he was only three years old. He was separated from his brother William and sister Rosalie, he lived with John and Frances Valentine Allan. He built a close relationship with Frances, while he never met John's expectations. At the age of thirteen, Poe was a well known poet, however he was discouraged by John who wanted him to join the family business. Poe attended Virginia University and accelled in his classes, however he did not have the funds to keep up with the costs. Poe turned to gambling which dug him an even bigger hole of debt. Poe moved back with the Allan's only to find out his fiancee had become engaged to someone else, heartbroken and furious Poe returned to Boston. Poe joined the U.S. army around 1827, two years later he found out that Frances Allan was dying from tuburculosis, but by the time he returned she had already passed. A while after, John and Poe cut ties with each other, when John died he left Poe out of his will, Poe then struggled living in poverty. He caught a break when one of his short stories won a writing contest. He was then offered and editing positon. During this time Poe, found inspiration from his cousin who was also his love intrest, and they married in 1836, she was only thirteen years old. Most of his pieces he wrote were very depressing and gloomy, which still remains unknown. His hardships is most likely the cause of his depression, however even when there seemed to be times that he was happy, his writing was still dark and dreadfull.