Poe's Works

The Valley of Unrest Far away — far away —Far away — as far at leastLies that valley as the dayDown within the golden east —All things lovely — are not theyFar away — far away?  It is called the valley Nis.And a Syriac tale there isThereabout which Time hath saidShall not be interpreted.Something about Satan's dart —Something about angel wings —Much about a broken heart —All about unhappy things:But “the valley Nis” at bestMeans “the valley of unrest.”  Once it smil’d a silent dellWhere the people did not dwell,Having gone unto the wars —And the sly, mysterious stars,With a visage ...

Spirits of the Dead Thy soul shall find itself alone,Mid dark thoughts of the grey tombstone —Not one, of all the crowd to pryInto thine hour of secrecy —Be silent in thy solitudeWhich is not loneliness — for thenThe spirits of the dead who stoodIn life before thee are againIn death around thee, and their willShall then oershadow thee — be still.  The night tho’ clear shall frown —And the stars shall look not downFrom their high thrones in the Heaven,With light like Hope to mortals given,But their red orbs, without beam,To thy weariness shall seemAs a burning & a feverWhich would ...

To My Mother Because I feel that, in the heavens above,The angels, whispering to one another,Can find, among their burning terms of love,None so devotional as that of ‘mother’ —Therefore by that sweet name I long have called you —You, who are more than mother unto me,And fill my heart of hearts, where Death installed you,In setting my Virginia's spirit free.My mother — my own mother — who died early —Was but the mother of myself; but youAre mother to the one I loved so dearly,And thus are dearer than the mother I knew;By that infinity with which my wifeWas dearer to my soul than its ...

To Marie Louise Not long ago, the writer of these lines,In the mad pride of intellectuality,Maintained the “Power of Words” — denied that everA thought arose within the human brainBeyond the utterance of the human tongue:And now, as if in mockery of that boast,Two words — two foreign, soft dissyllables —Two gentle sounds made only to be murmuredBy angels dreaming in the moon-lit “dewThat hangs like chains of pearl on Hermon hill”Have stirred from out the abysses of his heartUnthought-like thoughts — scarcely the shades of thought —Bewildering fantasies — far richer visionsThan even the ...