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    The Raven
    The Raven
    The Raven
    Ebook77 pages46 minutes

    The Raven

    By Edgar Allan Poe and Gustave Doré

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    About this ebook

    The Raven is a narrative poem written by Edgar Allan Poe, an american author.
    First published in 1845, the poem is often noted for its musicality, stylized expression, and mysterious atmosphere. Sitting on a Pallas bust, with its frequent repetition of the word "Nevermore," the raven seems to annoy the protagonist further. Folk, mythological, religious, and classical references are included in the poem.

    LanguageEnglish
    Publisher책보요여
    Release dateOct 13, 2020
    ISBN9791190059336
    Author

    Edgar Allan Poe

    Edgar Allan Poe was born in Boston in 1809. His parents, both touring actors, died before he was three. He was raised by John Allan, a prosperous Virginian merchant. Poe published his first volume of poetry while still a teenager. He worked as an editor for magazines in Philadelphia, Richmond and New York, and achieved respect as a literary critic. In 1836, he married his thirteen year-old cousin. It was only with the publication of The Raven and other Poems in 1845 that he achieved national fame as a writer. Poe died in mysterious circumstances in 1849.

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      Book preview

      The Raven - Edgar Allan Poe

      Foreword

      The initial intention of the publishers to present The Raven without preface, notes, or other extraneous matter that might detract from an undivided appreciation of the poem, has been somewhat modified by the introduction of Poe’s prose essay, The Philosophy of Composition. If any justification were necessary, it is to be found both in the unique literary interest of the essay, and in the fact that it is (or purports to be) a frank exposition of the modus operandi by which The Raven was written. It is felt that no other introduction could be more happily conceived or executed. Coming from Poe’s own hand, it directly avoids the charge of presumption; and written in Poe’s most felicitous style, it entirely escapes the defect—not uncommon in analytical treatises—of pedantry.

      It is indeed possible, as some critics assert, that this supposed analysis is purely fictitious. If so, it becomes all the more distinctive as a marvelous bit of imaginative writing, and as such ranks equally with that wild snatch of melody, The Raven. But these same critics would lead us further to believe that The Raven itself is almost a literal translation of the work of a Persian poet. If they be again correct, Poe’s genius as seen in the creation of The Philosophy of Composition is far more startling than it has otherwise appeared; and robbed of his bay leaves in the realm of poetry, he is to be crowned with a double wreath of berried holly for his prose.

      The Raven

      WITH COMMENT BY EDMUND C. STEDMAN

      First Published 1845

      Contents

      Front page

      Foreword

      The Raven

      The Philosophy of Composition

      Comment on the Poem

      The Raven

      Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,

      Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore,

      While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,

      As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.

      'T is some visiter, I muttered, "tapping at my chamber door—

      Only this, and nothing more."

      Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December,

      And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.

      Eagerly I wished the morrow:—vainly I had sought to borrow

      From my books surcease of sorrow—sorrow for the lost Lenore—

      For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore—

      Nameless here for evermore.

      And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtain

      Thrilled me—filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;

      So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating

      "'T is some visiter entreating entrance at my chamber door

      Some late visiter entreating entrance at my chamber door;—

      This it is, and nothing more."

      Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,

      Sir, said I, "or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;

      But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,

      And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door,

      That I scarce was sure I heard you"—here I opened wide the door;—

      Darkness there, and nothing more.

      Deep into that darkness peering, long I

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