# data[].attributes.body
John - White
KK - Green
Allie - Blue
Gabby - Purple

# data[].attributes.body
Edgar Allan Poe

# data[].attributes.body
Poe lost his mother to tuberculosis when he was two years old. His father had left the family when Poe was born, so Poe was adopted by tobacco merchant John Allan and his wife. John Allan's wife died of tuberculosis a few years later

# data[].attributes.body
Many think of Poe as a dark and scary man, who was always thinking of death and despair. Not everyone, however, knows the real reason behind many of his life works. Poe went through many hardships. He was an orphan, but was eventually adopted. He might have had a family, but he had a hard relationship with his foster father, John Allan. His foster father tried to stop Poe from doing the one thing he loved, writing. The worst part of Poe's life was when it came to his loves. Not one, not two, but all three of the women in Poe's life died from tuberculosis. The death of his mother at a young age affected Poe for the rest of his life, as did the death of his foster mother. However, what really sent Poe over the edge was the death of his love, cousin, and wife, Virginia.

# data[].attributes.body
Edgar Poe was born on January 19, 1809, to traveling actors Elizabeth and David Poe. Edgar was one of three children. When Edgar was three years old, his father left the family, and his mother died shortly thereafter to tuberculosis. When Edgar and his siblings were left orphaned, Edger was adopted by John and Francis Allen.

# data[].attributes.body
Poe got the name Allan because he was adopted by a wealthy family with the name Allan, so he took the name Edgar Allan Poe.

# data[].attributes.body
Annabel Lee is one of Poe's poems about loss. Many people believe it was written in memory of his wife, Virginia, who died two years prior to the release of this poem. Its first appearance was in the New York Tribune on October 9, 1849, two days after his death on October 7, 1849.

# data[].attributes.body
This book includes his most gory short stories such as, "The Fall of the House of Usher," " The Duc de L'Omelette," " MS. Found in a Bottle," "Bon-Bon," "Shadow - A Parable," "The devil in the Belfry," and "Ligeia".

# data[].attributes.body
Poe self-published his first book in 1827. It was called Tamerlane and Other Poems. His second collection included Al Aaraaf. Tamerlane and Minor Poems was published two years later in 1829.

# data[].attributes.body
One of Poe's most famous works is "Murders in the Rue Morgue." This is what critics and fans from all over, for the past 200 years, have called the first detective/mystery book. Because of this, Poe is known as the father of the modern-day detective story

# data[].attributes.body
Poe was called the Master of the Macabre because of his dark writing.

# data[].attributes.body
Edgar Allan Poe moved to Baltimore to live with his aunt, Maria Clemm, and her daughter, Virginia. Poe fell in love with the girl and married Virginia secretly when she was only thirteen. Virginia died at the age of twenty-four from tuberculosis. Even though he married Virginia, many people think he never had a romantic relationship with her. He was devoted to her and was torn to pieces when she died. Most likely, he viewed her more as a sister than as a wife.

# data[].attributes.body
The Raven is considered Poe's most famous works.

# data[].attributes.attachment_link.readable_text
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!

# data[].attributes.attachment_link.title
The Raven by Edgar Allan Poe | Poetry Foundation

# data[].attributes.attachment_link.description
Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,

# data[].attributes.body
Edgar Allan Poe joined the US Army under a false name and achieved the highest rank possible for him, but two years later he received word that his foster mother was dying of tuberculosis. He returned to his home, but was too late. He patched things up with his father, and with his help, attended West Point, a military school. He was very good at the academics, but he did poorly with his duties, and was expelled after a year. This was the breaking point of Poe's already strained relationship with his father.

# data[].attributes.body
In 1835 Poe got a job as a critic for the Southern Literary Messenger in Richmond, Virginia. He was soon branded as a "Cut-throat-critic" because he wrote vicious reviews. His scathing critiques earned him the name "Tomahawk Man."  Because he was so brutal when editing, his job was cut short. Poe's aggressive-reviewing style and sometimes combative personality strained his relationship with the public, and he left the magazine in 1837. Many people believe his alcohol abuse also played a role in his short stay.

# data[].attributes.body
No one knows...
Find out for yourself...

# data[].attributes.attachment_link.title
MPT: Knowing Poe: Poe the Person: It'll Be the Death of Me...

# data[].attributes.attachment_link.description
No one has ever been able to really answer that question. There have been theories. But, no one knows the real story. Now, it's your turn to try to solve this mystery - one of the most engaging in all of literature.

# data[].attributes.body
Every year on January 19, Edgar Allan Poe's birthday, the unexplainable occurs. A mysterious man, always dressed in a black coat, hat, and scarf pays a bizarre tribute to Edgar Allan Poe.
The Poe Toaster
He always leaves a bottle of cognac and 3 roses on his grave. This has happened every year since 1949, one hundred years after Poe's death. Below is the only picture of the Poe Toaster That has been taken.

# data[].attributes.body
After Poe died, a man named Rufus Griswold wrote his obituary. Griswold's writing was a victim of Poe's criticism and he wanted to get revenge. Griswold made Poe look like a drunkard and a womanizer in his obituary. This obituary was what eventually made him famous.