Poe's Works

Lines on Joe Locke As for Locke, he is all in my eye,May the d—l right soon for his soul call.He never was known to lie —In bed at a reveillé roll-call.” John Locke was a notable name;Joe Locke is a greater: in short,The former was well known to fame,But the latter's well known “to report.” Edgar Allan Poe Originally Published in 1843 ...

Lenore Ah, broken is the golden bowl!The spirit flown forever!Let the bell toll! — A saintly soulGlides down the Stygian river!And let the burial rite be read —The funeral song be sung —A dirge for the most lovely deadThat ever died so young!And, Guy De Vere,Hast thou no tear?Weep now or nevermore!See, on yon drearAnd rigid bier,Low lies thy love Lenore! “Yon heir, whose cheeks of pallid hueWith tears are streaming wet,Sees only, throughTheir crocodile dew,A vacant coronet —False friends! ye loved her for her wealthAnd hated her for her pride,And, when she fell in feeble ...

Latin Hymn Mille, mille, milleMille, mille, milleDecollavimus, unus homo!Mille, mille, mille, mille, decollavimus!Mille, mille, mille!Vivat qui mille mille occidit!Tantum vini habet nemoQuantum sanguinis effudit! —— which may be thus paraphrased: A thousand, a thousand, a thousand!A thousand, a thousand, a thousand!We with one warrior have slain.A thousand, a thousand, a thousand, a thousand!Sing a thousand over again.Soho! let us singLong life to our kingWho knocked over a thousand so fine.Soho! let us roarHe has given us moreRed gallons of goreThan all Syria can furnish of ...

The Lake In youth's spring, it was my lotTo haunt of the wide earth a spotThe which I could not love the less;So lovely was the lonelinessOf a wild lake, with black rock bound.And the tall pines that tower’d around.But when the night had thrown her pallUpon that spot — as upon all,And the wind would pass me byIn its stilly melody,My infant spirit would awakeTo the terror of the lone lake.Yet that terror was not fright —But a tremulous delight,And a feeling undefin’d,Springing from a darken’d mind.Death was in that poison’d waveAnd in its gulf a fitting graveFor him who thence could solace ...