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"Edgar Allan Poe." PBS. Public Broadcasting Service, 08 Oct. 2015. Web. 07 Apr. 2017.

"Edgar Allan Poe." Poets.org. Academy of American Poets, 01 Aug. 2016. Web. 07 Apr. 2017.

Poe, Edgar Allan. "The Raven." Poetry Foundation. Poetry Foundation, n.d. Web. 07 Apr. 2017.

"Text: Edgar Allan Poe, “Lenore” (Text-04), Pioneer, February 1843, 1:60-61." Edgar Allan Poe Society of Baltimore - Works - Poems - Lenore (Text-01). N.p., n.d. Web. 07 Apr. 2017.

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Edgar Allan Poe was born January 19, 1809 in Boston Massachusetts. Both of his parents died before he was the age of three. John and Francis Allan raised him as a foster child. John sent Edgar to the best of boarding schools. Edgar excelled academically and eventually went to the university of Virginia but was forced to leave after one year because his parents wouldn't pay for his gambling.

Edgar joined the United States Army in 1827, after moving to Boston. In 1827 he also published his first set of poems. Later he entered a military academy but was forced to leave because he was unable to pay to stay in the academy. Afterwards he moved in with his aunt in Baltimore.

Edgar soon began selling poems to magazines became the editor for the Southern Literary messenger in 1835. He married Virginia in 1836, at the time she was just 14 years old. Throughout the next ten years he published some of his most famous works. In 1847 his alcoholism and depression worsened. He later died in 1849 from what is believed to be rabies.

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Lenore is a poem about a person and is praising them. The poem has a proud and powerful mood. It is likely that Lenore is a woman, it is probably base off of Virginia Edgar's wife

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"The Raven" is a poem representing a man waiting for death. The entire poem has an on edge mood, as if the main character was waiting for something to take him. "Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before;" (Poe 5). This quote is expressing the main character contemplating death. At the time Edgar was going through depression and alcohol addiction. "Poe's lifelong struggle with depression and alcoholism worsened" (Poets.org). With his depression Edgar was likely contemplating death and this poem was an extension of these thoughts. This all came together to form what eventually became "The Raven".

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The mood is basically how a price of literature feels to the audience. The mood helps encapsulate readers into the work. "Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing" (Poe 5) the author uses descriptive uneasy language to set a fearful mood putting the reader on edge.

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Personification is when an author talks about a not human as though it has human traits. This is often used to give more depth to them to help set an idea or scene. "Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.” (Poe 8) this quote gives the Raven a character and lets you know that it is not merely a Raven, it represents something.

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Connotation is the use of the implied meanings of words. The author uses connotation in order to set the mood of the poem. "And the silken, sad, uncertain rustling of each purple curtain" (Poe 3). The connotations of the words used in this quote allow the author to create a uneasy mood.

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Repetition is when an author reuses a word, phrase, or idea to add emphasis. For axample in Edgar Allan Poe's "The Raven" each stanza ends with the word "more". "This it is and nothing more" (Poe 2)

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Rhyming is the use of similar sounding ending syllables of words, rhyme can be used to add emphasis to certain words as well as adding a sense of structure or rythy. In the poem "The Raven" by Edgar Allan Poe stanza one it states "While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping" the author rhymes napping and tapping to add a sense of rythym.

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AH, broken is the golden bowl!

The spirit flown forever!

Let the bell toll! — A saintly soul

Glides down the Stygian river!

And let the burial rite be read —

The funeral song be sung —

A dirge for the most lovely dead

That ever died so young!

And, Guy De Vere,

Hast thou no tear?

Weep now or nevermore!

See, on yon drear

And rigid bier,

Low lies thy love Lenore!

“Yon heir, whose cheeks of pallid hue

With tears are streaming wet,

Sees only, through

Their crocodile dew,

A vacant coronet —

False friends! ye loved her for her wealth

And hated her for her pride,

And, when she fell in feeble health,

Ye blessed her — that she died.

How shall the ritual, then, be read?

The requiem how be sung

For her most wrong’d of all the dead

That ever died so young?”

Peccavimus!

But rave not thus!

And let the solemn song

Go up to God so mournfully that she may feel no wrong!

The sweet Lenore

Hath “gone before”

With young hope at her side,

And thou art wild

For the dear child

That should have been thy bride —

For her, the fair

And debonair,

That now so lowly lies —

The life still there

Upon her hair,

The death upon her eyes. [page 61:]

“Avaunt! — to-night

My heart is light —

No dirge will I upraise,

But waft the angel on her flight

With a Pæan of old days!

Let no bell toll!

Lest her sweet soul,

Amid its hallow’d mirth,

Should catch the note

As it doth float

Up from the damned earth —

To friends above, from fiends below, th’ indignant ghost is riven —

From grief and moan

To a gold throne

Beside the King of Heaven?”

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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!