Edgar Allan Poe

INTRODUCTION

As an American literary icon, Edgar Allan Poe as a person is often shrouded in the same macabre light as that of his writings. Legends paint him as a madman, haunted by inner demons and vices—and his work a mere reflection of his insanity.

But underneath that fabrication is a person who was raised a gentleman and who crafted masterpieces of incredible imaginings. What cannot be denied, though, is that the atmosphere of his life was ripe with grief and isolation, accompanied by the loss of loved ones and professional strife as he struggled to make a living with his creative pursuits.

And that troubled tone echoes in his writings. We easily label Poe now as an editor, critic, poet, and short-story writer, but they are titles that he struggled through poverty to earn over time.

In this collection, we celebrate the “master of suspense” with six selected poems and four short stories that are full of mystery and horror. The poems include The Raven, To Helen, The City in the Sea, A Dream Within a Dream, The Conqueror Worm, and The Bells. First published anonymously in the New York Evening Mirror in 1845, The Raven has grown to become one of the most famous poems in literary history. To Helen was first printed in Poems in 1831, and some say it is about Jane Stith Craig Stanard, who Poe knew from Richmond growing up. The City in the Sea, possibly about the cities of Sodom and Gomorrah (beneath the Dead Sea), also first appeared in Poems in 1831. In A Dream Within a Dream (1849) Poe reflects on a philosophical topic that has been pondered for thousands of years. The Conqueror Worm, first published by Graham’s Magazine in January 1843, transports you into a play. And the last major poem of Poe’s life, put in print by Home Journal in 1849, was The Bells.

The four haunting short stories included in this collection are The Masque of the Red Death (1842), The Tell-Tale Heart (1843), The Cask of Amontillado (1847), and The Black Cat (1843). Out of all of the stories Poe wrote, The Tell-Tale Heart is arguably known as the most terrifying. His tales have captivated readers across the ages and the way he crafted them with thrill and intrigue has garnered him the title “the father of detective stories.” The door into his chill-inducing, mysterious world awaits you.

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POEMS

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THE RAVEN

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 darkness 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 threat 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 an instant 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;