Friday, January 20, 2012

Happy Birthday Edgar Allan Poe !

Edgar Allan Poe
Yesterday was the birthday of Edgar Allan Poe (19 January 1809 –7 October 1849), was an American author, poet, editor and literary critic, considered part of the American Romantic Movement. Poe was one of the earliest American practitioners of the short story, best known for his tales of mystery and the macabre. Presenting some of his poems : being poet

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 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 --

A Dream Within A Dream

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?

Eldorado

GAILY bedight,
       A gallant knight,
In sunshine and in shadow,
       Had journeyed long,
      Singing a song,
In search of Eldorado.
      But he grew old --
       This knight so bold --
And o'er his heart a shadow
       Fell as he found
       No spot of ground
That looked like Eldorado.
       And, as his strength
       Failed him at length,
He met a pilgrim shadow --
       "Shadow," said he,
       "Where can it be --
This land of Eldorado?"
       "Over the Mountains
       Of the Moon,
Down the Valley of the Shadow,
       Ride, boldly ride,"
       The shade replied, --
"If you seek for Eldorado!"

To The River

Fair river! in thy bright, clear flow
    Of crystal, wandering water,
Thou art an emblem of the glow
       Of beauty -- the unhidden heart --
       The playful maziness of art
In old Alberto's daughter;
But when within thy wave she looks --
       Which glistens then, and trembles --
Why, then, the prettiest of brooks
       Her worshipper resembles;
For in my heart, as in thy stream,
    Her image deeply lies --
The heart which trembles at the beam
    Of her soul-searching eyes.

A Valentine

For her this rhyme is penned, whose luminous eyes,
    Brightly expressive as the twins of Lœda,
Shall find her own sweet name, that, nestling lies
    Upon the page, enwrapped from every reader.
Search narrowly the lines! -- they hold a treasure
    Divine -- a talisman -- an amulet
That must be worn at heart. Search well the measure --
    The words -- the syllables! Do not forget
The trivialest point, or you may lose your labor!
    And yet there is in this no Gordian knot
Which one might not undo without a sabre,
    If one could merely comprehend the plot.
Enwritten upon the leaf where now are peering
    Eyes scintillating soul, there lie perdus
Three eloquent words oft uttered in the hearing
    Of poets, by poets -- as the name is a poet’s, too.
Its letters, although naturally lying
    Like the knight Pinto -- Mendez Ferdinando --
Still form a synonym for Truth. -- Cease trying!
    You will not read the riddle, though you do the best you can do.

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,
Is a symbol and a token --
How it hangs upon the trees,
A mystery of mysteries! --

The Valley of Unrest

Once it smiled a silent dell
Where the people did not dwell;
They had gone unto the wars,
Trusting to the mild-eyed stars,
Nightly, from their azure towers,
To keep watch above the flowers,
In the midst of which all day
The red sun-light lazily lay.
Now each visitor shall confess
The sad valley's restlessness.
Nothing there is motionless --
Nothing save the airs that brood
Over the magic solitude.
Ah, by no wind are stirred those trees
That palpitate like the chill seas
Around the misty Hebrides!
Ah, by no wind those clouds are driven
That rustle through the unquiet Heaven
Uneasily, from morn till even,
Over the violets there that lie
In myriad types of the human eye --
Over the lilies there that wave
And weep above a nameless grave!
They wave: -- from out their fragrant tops
Eternal dews come down in drops.
They weep: -- from off their delicate stems
Perennial tears descend in gems.