Edgar Allan Poe was an American writer, editor and literary critic. He was the central figure of Romanticism in the United States and one of the country’s earliest practitioners of the short story. He is very famous for his tales and poems of horror and mystery, his short stories and his use of the macabre. He was also the first well known American writer to try and make a living out of writing alone.
True! –nervous –very, very dreadfully nervous I had been and am; but why will you say that I am mad? The disease had sharpened my senses –not destroyed –not dulled them. Above all was the sense of ... [+]
The thousand injuries of Fortunato I had borne as I best could, but when he ventured upon insult I vowed revenge. You, who so well know the nature of my soul, will not suppose, however, that gave ... [+]
At Paris, just after dark one gusty evening in the autumn of 18–, I was enjoying the twofold luxury of meditation and a meerschaum, in company with my friend C. Auguste Dupin, in his little back ... [+]
Son coeur est un luth suspendu; Sitôt qu'on le touche il résonne. De Béranger. During the whole of a dull, dark, and soundless day in the autumn of the year, when the clouds hung oppressively low ... [+]
The red death had long devastated the country. No pestilence had ever been so fatal, or so hideous. Blood was its Avatar and its seal–the madness and the horror of blood. There were sharp pains, and ... [+]
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 ... [+]
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 ... [+]
Impia tortorum longas hic turba furoresSanguinis innocui non satiata, aluit.Sospite nunc patria, fracto nunc funeris antro,Mors ubi dira fuit vita salusque patent. I WAS sick, sick unto death, with ... [+]
Thy soul shall find itself alone'Mid dark thoughts of the grey tomb-stone;Not one, of all the crowd, to pryInto thine hour of secrecy. Be silent in that solitude,Which is not loneliness — for thenThe ... [+]
In visions of the dark night I have dreamed of joy departed– But a waking dream of life and light Hath left me broken-hearted. Ah! what is not a dream by day To him whose eyes are cast On things ... [+]
The skies they were ashen and sober; The leaves they were crispéd and sere— The leaves they were withering and sere;It was night in the lonesome October Of my most immemorial year;It was hard by ... [+]
Romance, who loves to nod and sing, With drowsy head and folded wing, Among the green leaves as they shake Far down within some shadowy lake, To me a painted paroquet Hath been–most familia ... [+]