Born January 19, 1809; died October 7, 1849; never very happy for very long.
No rays from the holy heaven come down
On the long night-time of that town;
But light from out the lurid sea
Streams up the turrets silently–
Gleams up the pinnacles far and free–
Up domes–up spires–up kingly halls–
Up fanes–up Babylon-like walls–
Up shadowy long-forgotten bowers
Of sculptured ivy and stone flowers–
Up many and many a marvellous shrine
Whose wreathèd friezes intertwine
The viol, the violet, and the vine.
Resignedly beneath the sky
The melancholy waters lie.
So blend the turrets and shadows there
That all seem pendulous in air,
While from a proud tower in the town
Death looks gigantically down.
…and have a deathly birthday to you too.
The one about the beating heart scared me. I forgot what it was called.
Oh, I’m terribly fond of Poe. Even though he’s depressing as anything, and The Raven does dwell rather too much on Lenore and not nearly enough on the actual raven. That excerpt up there is lovely!
Anyway, a happy birthday (or a melancholy one, if that makes you happy) to you, Mr. Poe! -toasts- Here’s to the twisted minds of this world!
Have a delightfully morose birthday, Mr. Poe! I hope that you (or your ghost, I suppose) have a dreadfully frightening and gloomy existence on your special day.
Did you know that Poe’s skull is in the collection at the Enoch Pratt library in Baltimore? According to a librarian I met who works there it is. I don’t think you can check it out though…..
Happy birthday, Mr. Poe, make it as gloomy and creepy as possible! Keep being depressed, please. We need a pessimist to keep everything going.
1- The Tell-Tale Heart.
What’s the point of living if we’re all going to die?
“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?
5 – Yes, that!
Have a most extremely depressing, tragic, and terrifying birthday, master poe!
The black cat was creepy. and the hop-frog one. *shudders* Who would burn people dressed up like orangatangs? Oh well. Its good literature.
Have a… birthday, Mr. Poe!
Happy morose birthday. Your poetry is great, just desperately depressing.
Have a depressing, spooky birthday, Mr. Poe! I hope your raven pays you a visit!
/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\
/\/\/\/\:evil: /\/\/\
/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\
I’m guessing that didn’t work. It’s my first attempt at a spike pie. But I figured you’d appreciate it…
Nope, it didn’t work. Could a gnome step in, please? I have no idea how to fix it.
Happeh birthday to you, o Lord of Horror!!!! (The first, since Stephen King wasn’t born until at least 2 centuries later
)
The tinntinnabulation of the bells bells bells!
14- BEST. POEM. EVER.
15) I know. I lurve it!
I love you Edgar! Happy birthday!
In celebration, a condensed Raven!
Guy: Aw, I’m sad.
Raven: Nevermore.
Guy: *tells Raven to leave, but dies instead*
I love Annabelle Lee. The guy I like read it aloud in LA a few weeks ago, and he looked at me the whole time.
It was so sweet…
His work is especially good with Gris Grimly’s artwork. Also, 14- tintinnabulation was spelled wrong (I wrote it correctly.)
The black cat made me cry when i first read it at age 8. Annabel lee is fuzznosed.
Well, I thought the masquerade of the red death was also pretty good. Also, try the pit and the pendulum.
Someone remind me again how he died? Didn’t he drink himself to death or something?
22- His death was quite interesting. I can’t remember all the details, but the gist was this. He went missing for about a week somewhere, then showed up at a bar starving and barely conscious. Wearing someone else’s clothes, he kept saying the name “Reynolds”. Supposedly he uttered the words “Lord, help my poor soul” before dying. Now even his death certificate is lost. Everything from alcoholism to murder to rabies has been suggested for the cause, but we can never be sure.
20- What do you mean by ‘fuzznosed?’ (besides the obvious…)
23- Oooooo… creepy…