Edgar Allan Poe

Picture of Edgar Allan Poe

Edgar Allan Poe (January 19, 1809 – October 7, 1849) was an American writer, editor, and literary critic. Poe is best known for his poetry and short stories, particularly his tales of mystery and the macabre. He is widely regarded as a central figure of Romanticism in the United States and American literature as a whole, and he was one of the country's earliest practitioners of the short story.

Poe is generally considered the inventor of the detective fiction genre and is further credited with contributing to the emerging genre of science fiction. He was the first well-known American writer to try to earn a living through writing alone, resulting in a financially difficult life and career.

Spirits of the Dead

                                                                                                 Thy soul shall find 
                                                                                     itself alone ‘Mid dark 
                                                                         thoughts of the grey tomb-
                                                                        stone -- Not one, of all the 
                                                                  crowd, to pry Into thine hour of 
                                                                  secrecy: Be silent in that solitude
                                                                    Which is        not         loneliness
                                                                    for then       The        spirits of the 
                                                                   dead who stood In life before thee 
                                                                     are again In death around thee -- 
                                       and their                will Shall then          overshadow                  thee: be 
                                      still For the                 night -- tho'        clear  shall               frown And 
                                       the stars shall look not down, From their high thrones in the Heaven,
                                           With  light like Hope to mortals given  But their red orbs, without  
                                                  beam, To thy weariness shall seem  As a burning and a 
                                                      fever Which would cling to thee for ever : Now are 
                                                                 thoughts thou shalt not banish -- Now 
                                                                     are visions ne'er to vanish -- From 
                                                                          thy spirit shall they pass  No 
                                                                            more -- like dew-drop from 
                                                                              the grass: The breeze -- the 
                                                                                 breath of God -- is still --                                                 And 
                                                                                        the mist upon the hill                                  Shadowy 
                                                                                         -- shadowy -- yet unbroken,             as a symbol 
                                                                                               and a token --  How it hangs upon
                                                                                                         the trees, A mystery of 
                                                                                                                  mysteries! --

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