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Archive for the ‘Edgar Allan Poe’ Category

Romance, who loves to nod and sing,

With drowsy head and folded wing,

Among the green leaves as they shake

Far down within some shadowy lake,

To me a painted paroquet

Hath been—a most familiar bird—

Taught me my alphabet to say—

To lisp my very earliest word

While in the wild wood I did lie,

A child—with a most knowing eye.

Of late, eternal Condor years

So shake the very Heaven on high

With tumult as they thunder by,

I have no time for idle cares

Through gazing on the unquiet sky.

And when an hour with calmer wings

Its down upon my spirit flings—

That little time with lyre and rhyme

To while away—forbidden things!

My heart would feel to be a crime

Unless it trembled with the strings.

 

                        ~ Edgar Allan Poe, born on this day in 1809

 

"Un Rêve d'Amour" by Franceso Vinea, 1895 (photo by JoJan)

“Un Rêve d’Amour” by Franceso Vinea, 1895 (photo by JoJan)

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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 –

 

                                  ~ Edgar Allan Poe, died on this day in 1849

 

"Тамара и демон" ("Tamara and Demon") by Konstantin Makovsky, 1889

“Тамара и демон” (“Tamara and Demon”) by Konstantin Makovsky, 1889

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Take this kiss upon the brow!

And, in parting from you now,

Thus much let me avow –

You are not wrong, who deem

That my days have been a dream;

Yet if hope has flown away

In a night, or in a day,

In a vision, or in none,

Is it therefore the less gone?

All that we see or seem

Is but a dream within a dream.

 

I stand amid the roar

Of a surf-tormented shore,

And I hold within my hand

Grains of the golden sand –

How few! yet how they creep

Through my fingers to the deep,

While I weep – while I weep!

O God! Can I not grasp

Them with a tighter clasp?

O God! can I not save

One from the pitiless wave?

Is all that we see or seem

But a dream within a dream?

 

                ~ Edgar Allan Poe, born on this day in 1809

 

Thomas Pollock Anshutz, circa 1900

Thomas Pollock Anshutz, circa 1900

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In visions of the dark night

   I have dreamed of joy departed –

But a waking dream of life and light

   Hath left me broken-hearted.

 

Ah! what is not a dream by day

   To him whose eyes are cast

On things around him with a ray

   Turned back upon the past?

 

That holy dream – that holy dream,

   While all the world were chiding,

Hath cheered me as a lovely beam

   A lonely spirit guiding.

 

What though that light, thro’ storm and night,

   So trembled from afar –

What could there be more purely bright

   In Truth’s day star?

 

                        ~ Edgar Allan Poe, died on this day in 1849

 

John Anster Fitzgerald, 1858

John Anster Fitzgerald, 1858

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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 –

 

~ Edgar Allan Poe, born on this day in 1809

 

Eyolf Soot, 1895

Eyolf Soot, 1895

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Take this kiss upon the brow!

And, in parting from you now,

Thus much let me avow –

You are not wrong, who deem

That my days have been a dream;

Yet if hope has flown away

In a night, or in a day,

In a vision, or in none,

Is it therefore the less gone?

All that we see or seem

Is but a dream within a dream.

 

I stand amid the roar

Of a surf-tormented shore,

And I hold within my hand

Grains of the golden sand –

How few! yet how they creep

Through my fingers to the deep,

While I weep – while I weep!

O God! Can I not grasp

Them with a tighter clasp?

O God! can I not save

One from the pitiless wave?

Is all that we see or seem

But a dream within a dream?

 

~ Edgar Allan Poe, born on this day in 1809

 

"The Stuff That Dreams Are Made Of" by John Anster Fitzgerald, 1858

“The Stuff That Dreams Are Made Of” by John Anster Fitzgerald, 1858

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With the anniversary of Edgar Allan Poe’s birth just two days away, fans of the gothic master of macabre plan one final vigil for the mysterious “Poe Toaster” at the writer’s gravesite in Baltimore.  For more than half a century, an unknown guest left roses and a half-bottle of cognac on Poe’s grave to commemorate the author’s 1809 birthday. 

The shadowy Toaster failed to make his pre-dawn appearance the last two years, much to the disappointment of Poe House and Museum Curator Jeff Jerome and the many Poe enthusiasts who gather annually to witness the event.  The second consecutive Poe no-show in 2011 suggested that the ritualistic tribute that began in 1949 is dead and that the unidentified Toaster may remain, like the poet’s lost Lenore, “nameless here for evermore.” 

Nonetheless, hopeful fans will wait with Jerome once again this week for the Toaster’s January 19 appearance before calling an end to the decades long tradition.

 

This 2008 tribute at Poe's memorial was most likely left by an imposter of the Poe Toaster, who leaves his bottle on Poe's actual grave. (Image courtesy of Midnightdreary, Creative Commons Attribution 3.0.)

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