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Edgar Allan Poe was born on January 19, 1809, in Boston, Massachusetts. He was a poet, writer, critic, and editor with the creations of mystery and horror.
In Poe's early life he dealt with a lot of lost. His father had left the family at a terribly young age. Later on, his mother died from tuberculosis at the age of three. Also, he was separated by his two siblings later in his early life. However, he did become interested in his cousin, Virginia, and married her in 1836. She became his literary inspiration.
Poe's major works didn't come to life until the late 1830's when he published "Tales of the Grotesque and Arabesque. He went on to win the literary prize in 1843 for the piece "The Gold Bug". With his major hits he moved to New York City in 1844 where he would write his most famous work a year later in 1845 called "The Raven".
Poe's death is a type of mystery. He suffered the lost of his beloved Virginia in 1847 and suffered from poor health and struggled financially. However, his final days remain unknown. He had left Richmond on September 27, 1849 and was going to Philadelphia, but on October 3rd he was found in Baltimore very ill. With this, he was taken to the hospital and later died on October 7th, where his last words were "Lord, help my poor soul."

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Poe's Wife

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Edgar Allan Poe

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With me poetry has not been a purpose, but a passion.
-Edgar Allan Poe

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I became insane, with long intervals of horrible sanity.   -Edgar Allan Poe

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Science has not yet taught us if madness is or is not the sublimity of the intelligence.
-Edgar Allan Poe

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Words have no power to impress the mind without the exquisite horror of their reality.
-Edgar Allan Poe

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Science has not yet taught us if madness is or is not the sublimity of the intelligence.
-Edgar Allan Poe

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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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http://poestories.com/read/dreamland
http://poestories.com/read/alone
http://poestories.com/read/raven
http://www.biography.com/people/edgar-allan-poe-9443160
https://www.poets.org/poetsorg/poet/edgar-allan-poe
https://www.britannica.com/biography/Edgar-Allan-Poe
https://www.brainyquote.com/quotes/authors/e/edgar_allan_poe.html

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Alone:
Metaphor: "Of a devil in my view" (Poe, line 22) There wasn't a literal demon in sight for him, but it showed the negativity in his mind.
Theme: Trauma, due to traumatizing events that had taken place in his life as a child and how it had changed him to become unlike the other children he speaks of in the poem.
Imagery: "From the red cliff of the mountain, From the sun that round me rolled In its autumn tint of gold..." (Poe, lines 14-16). Shows the description of the passions the other children had that he did not.
Dream-Land:
Alliteration: "Wild wierd bottomless vales and boundless floods dews that drop all over" (Poe, lines 7,9,12). These words are packed with the same consonant sound.
Rhythm: The poem is rhyming couplets meaning that lines A and B rhyme and C and D rhyme.
Personification: Poe writes about non-human entities and implying them as humans; " NIGHT, on a black throne reigns upright" (Poe, lines 3-4)

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In this poem, the character explains the difficulties of his childhood as a result of his unique characteristics. One can tell that his childhood was not full of all the normal things other children have with his use of words like “demon” and “stormy”. Though his loneliness is evident, and he points out that it is his uniqueness that keeps others away, he might not have noticed that it could be he himself who gets himself secluded. His own negativity may be what keeps him behind his own bars, waiting with his own demons only he can see.

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Dreams are normally thought of as wonderful moments away from reality, however, this trip the character goes through in this dream like version of his reality is once again a disfigured form of a sort of dreamlike death, where things could go great if you believe, but take a sudden turn if you don’t. This tends to be a reoccurring motif in Poe’s poems, the mysterious side of the truth. In the character’s true dreams or death, the land is like something straight from Dante’s Inferno, with the sky on fire and the oceans leaping away. This makes it evident that there are two sides to everything, and depending on what you want to see, it’s what you’re going to get.

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The Works of Edgar Allan Poe By: Brooke Lehman

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The Works of Edgar Allan Poe By: Brooke Lehman

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By a route obscure and lonely,
Haunted by ill angels only,
Where an Eidolon, named NIGHT,
On a black throne reigns upright,
I have reached these lands but newly
From an ultimate dim Thule --
From a wild weird clime that lieth, sublime,
Out of SPACE -- out of TIME.

Bottomless vales and boundless floods,
And chasms, and caves, and Titan woods,
With forms that no man can discover
For the dews that drip all over;
Mountains toppling evermore
Into seas without a shore;
Seas that restlessly aspire,
Surging, unto skies of fire;
Lakes that endlessly outspread
Their lone waters -- lone and dead, --
Their still waters -- still and chilly
With the snows of the lolling lily.

By the lakes that thus outspread
Their lone waters, lone and dead, --
Their sad waters, sad and chilly
With the snows of the lolling lily, --
By the mountains -- near the river
Murmuring lowly, murmuring ever, --
By the grey woods, -- by the swamp
Where the toad and the newt encamp, --
By the dismal tarns and pools
Where dwell the Ghouls, --
By each spot the most unholy --
In each nook most melancholy, --
There the traveller meets aghast
Sheeted Memories of the Past --
Shrouded forms that start and sigh
As they pass the wanderer by --
White-robed forms of friends long given,
In agony, to the Earth -- and Heaven.

For the heart whose woes are legion
'Tis a peaceful, soothing region --
For the spirit that walks in shadow
'Tis -- oh 'tis an Eldorado!
But the traveller, travelling through it,
May not -- dare not openly view it;
Never its mysteries are exposed
To the weak human eye unclosed;
So wills its King, who hath forbid
The uplifting of the fringed lid;
And thus the sad Soul that here passes
Beholds it but through darkened glasses.

By a route obscure and lonely,
Haunted by ill angels only,
Where an Eidolon, named NIGHT,
On a black throne reigns upright,
I have wandered home but newly
From this ultimate dim Thule.

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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 --