Poe The Poet
THE STORY OF EDGAR ALLAN POE

Edgar Allan Poe

Poe's Finest
Biography by Natalie Gallardo
Edgar Allan Poe is popularly know for his astounding short stories and poems. He has impressed us by his mysterious poems, with laughter, and even psychology. Poe even turned around the most unthinkable literature that was made fun of, and he turned ourworld of literature theright side up. Edgar Poe was born in Boston, Massachusetts (1809). His parents were young actors in search for fortune, but died before young Edgar was 3 years old. He then was taken under the care of John Allen, a well earved merchant man, where he lived in Richmond, Va.. Later, he studied in England for about 5 years. Allen suddenly stopped paying his money problems and made him work as a clerk. Poe then won a contest for intriguing stories of $50, where then he fled with his Aunt, Maria Clamm, and her daughter,Virginia to Richmond in 1835. Poe later married Virginia even though she was only about 14 years old. During all this, Edgar continued publishing poems. He began to write fiction, comedy, and mystery stories and poems, to win the public. Then his wife died on January 1847. He began to recover and even put himself in his poems (as all poets usually do) but always kept strong. From then on Edgar continued his mass of beautiful written work, when suddenly he was found unconscience on the side of the street. The men at the arbituary said the he died of "congestion of the brain". Though, he will always be remembered, because of his fascinating short stories. He even found himself a place in our past history. 
				 	     


POEMS


ALONE

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 loved, I loved alone.
Then--in my childhood, in the dawn
Of a most stormy life--was drawn
From every 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 rolled
In its autumn tint of gold,
From the lightning in the sky
As it passed 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.                                             

THE LAKE

In spring of youth it was my lot
To haunt of the wide world a spot
The which I could not love the less--
So lovely was the loneliness
Of a wild lake, with black rock bound,
And the tall pines that towered around.

But when the Night had thrown her pall
Upon that spot, as upon all,
And the mystic wind went by
Murmuring in melody--
Then--ah then I would awake
To the terror of the lone lake.

Yet that terror was not fright,
But a tremulous delight--
A feeling not the jewelled mine
Could teach or bribe me to define--
Nor Love--although the Love were thine.

Death was in that poisonous wave,
And in its gulf a fitting grave
For him who thence could solace bring
To his lone imagining--
Whose solitary soul could make
An Eden of that dim lake.

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