Allan Poe Delphi Complete Works of Edgar Allan Poe (Illustrated)

1. Auflage 2015
ISBN: 978-1-908909-13-8
Verlag: Delphi Classics
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: 0 - No protection

E-Book, Englisch, 3721 Seiten

Reihe: Series One

At last, America's Master Storyteller joins the ranks of Delphi Classics' scholarly collections. This is the COMPLETE WORKS of the great literary giant Edgar Allan Poe. Now you can truly own Poe's immense and diverse works on your eReading device. (Version 6)
* the COMPLETE poetry, with special Chronological and Alphabetical contents tables
* the COMPLETE tales, with its own Chronological and Alphabetical contents tables
* brief but informative introductions to many poems, tales and other texts
* images of how the books first appeared, giving your EReader a taste of the original texts
* Poe's rare unfinished play POLITIAN, with perfect formatting
* BOTH of Poe's novels, including the very rare unfinished novel THE JOURNAL OF JULIUS RODMAN
* many short stories and poems are presented with their original illustrations
* Every non-fiction essay - even the rare ones recently discovered - available in no other digital collection
* many images relating to Poe, his life and works
* INCLUDES with the Complete Letters - spend hours perusing Poe's personal correspondence!
* the letters have separate tables to help you find whatever letter you want easily
* scholarly ordering of texts into chronological order and literary genres
* four biographical works exploring Poe's mysterious life, including the infamous memoir by Griswold
* criticism section, featuring essays by other famous writers examining Poe's contribution to literature
* features Poe's contributions to THE CONCHOLOGIST'S FIRST BOOK
The eBook also includes a front no-nonsense table of contents to allow easy navigation around Poe's oeuvre.
Contents
The Poetry Collections
TAMERLANE AND OTHER POEMS
AL AARAAF, TAMERLANE AND MINOR POEMS
POEMS, 1831
THE RAVEN AND OTHER POEMS
UNCOLLECTED POEMS
The Poems
LIST OF POEMS IN CHRONOLOGICAL ORDER
LIST OF POEMS IN ALPHABETICAL ORDER
The Novels
THE NARRATIVE OF ARTHUR GORDON PYM OF NANTUCKET
THE JOURNAL OF JULIUS RODMAN
The Play
POLITIAN
The Essays
INDEX OF THE COMPLETE ESSAYS
The Non-Fiction
THE CONCHOLOGIST'S FIRST BOOK
THE LITERATI
MARGINALIA
FIFTY SUGGESTIONS
A CHAPTER ON AUTOGRAPHY
The Letters
INDEX OF CORRESPONDENTS
INDEX OF CORRESPONDENTS, LETTERS AND DATES
The Criticism
EDGAR A. POE by James Russell Lowell.
AN EXTRACT FROM 'FIGURES OF SEVERAL CENTURIES' by Arthur Symons
AN EXTRACT FROM 'LETTERS TO DEAD AUTHORS' by Andrew Lang
THE CENTENARY OF EDGAR ALLAN POE by Edmund Gosse
FROM POE TO VALÉRY by T.S. Eliot
The Biographies
THE STORY OF EDGAR ALLAN POE by Sherwin Cody
THE DREAMER by Mary Newton Stanard
MEMOIR OF THE AUTHOR by Rufus Wilmot Griswold
DEATH OF EDGAR A. POE. by N. P. Willis

Autoren/Hrsg.

Allan Poe, Edgar

Leseproben

TAMERLANE (1827)
I.  I HAVE sent for thee, holy friar;
But ‘twas not with the drunken hope,
Which is but agony of desire
To shun the fate, with which to cope
Is more than crime may dare to dream,
That I have call’d thee at this hour:
Such, father, is not my theme —
Nor am I mad, to deem that power
Of earth may shrive me of the sin
Unearthly pride hath revelled in —
I would not call thee fool, old man.
But hope is not a gift of thine;
If I can hope (O God! I can)
It falls from an eternal shrine. II.  The gay wall of this gaudy tower
Grows dim around me — death is near.
I had not thought, until this hour
When passing from the earth, that ear
Of any, were it not the shade
Of one whom in life I made
All mystery but a simple name,
Might know the secret of a spirit
Bow’d down in sorrow, and in shame. —
Shame, said’st thou?  Ay, I did inherit
That hated portion, with the fame,
The worldly glory, which has shown
A demon-light around my throne,
Scorching my sear’d heart with a pain
Not Hell shall make me fear again. III.  I have not always been as now —
The fever’d diadem on my brow
I claim’d and won usurpingly —
Ay — the same heritage hath given
Rome to the Cæsar — this to me;
The heirdom of a kingly mind —
And a proud spirit, which hath striven
Triumphantly with human kind.  In mountain air I first drew life;
The mists of the Taglay have shed
Nightly their dews on my young head;
And my brain drank their venom then,
When after day of perilous strife
With chamois, I would seize his den
And slumber, in my pride of power,
The infant monarch of the hour —
For, with the mountain dew by night,
My soul imbibed unhallow’d feeling;
And I would feel its essence stealing
In dreams upon me — while the light
Flashing from cloud that hover’d o’er,
Would seem to my half closing eye
The pageantry of monarchy!
And the deep thunder’s echoing roar
Came hurriedly upon me, telling
Of war, and tumult, where my voice,
My own voice, silly child! was swelling
(O how would my wild heart rejoice
And leap within me at the cry)
The battle cry of victory! ***** IV.  The rain came down upon my head
But barely shelter’d — and the wind
Pass’d quickly o’er me — but my mind
Was maddening — for ‘twas man that shed
Laurels upon me — and the rush,
The torrent of the chilly air
Gurgled in my pleased ear the crush
Of empires, with the captive’s prayer,
The hum of suitors, the mix’d tone
Of flattery round a sovereign’s throne.  The storm had ceased — and I awoke —
Its spirit cradled me to sleep,
And as it pass’d me by, there broke
Strange light upon me, tho’ it were
My soul in mystery to steep:
For I was not as I had been;
The child of Nature, without care,
Or thought, save of the passing scene. — V.  My passions, from that hapless hour,
Usurp’d a tyranny, which men
Have deem’d, since I have reach’d to power,
My innate nature — be it so:
But, father, there lived one who, then —
Then, in my boyhood, when their fire
Burn’d with a still intenser glow;
(For passion must with youth expire)
Even then, who deem’d this iron heart
In woman’s weakness had a part.  I have no words, alas! to tell
The loveliness of loving well!
Nor would I dare attempt to trace
The breathing beauty of a face,
Which even to my impassion’d mind,
Leaves not its memory behind.
In spring of life have ye ne’er dwelt
Some object of delight upon,
With steadfast eye, till ye have felt
The earth reel — and the vision gone?
And I have held to memory’s eye
One object — and but one — until
Its very form hath pass’d me by,
But left its influence with me stilL VI.  ’Tis not to thee that I should name —
Thou canst not — wouldst not dare to think
The magic empire of a flame
Which even upon this perilous brink
Hath fix’d my soul, tho’ unforgiven,
By what it lost for passion — Heaven.
I loved — and O, how tenderly!
Yes! she [was] worthy of all love!
Such as in infancy was mine,
Tho’ then its passion could not be:
‘Twas such as angel minds above
Might envy — her young heart the shrine
On which my every hope and thought
Were incense — then a goodly gift —
For they were childish, without sin,
Pure as her young example taught;
Why did I leave it and adrift,
Trust to the fickle star within? VII.  We grew in age and love together,
Roaming the forest and the wild;
My breast her shield in wintry weather,
And when the friendly sunshine smiled
And she would mark the opening skies,
I saw no Heaven but in her eyes —
Even childhood knows the human heart;
For when, in sunshine and in smiles,
From all our little cares apart,
Laughing at her half silly wiles,
I’d throw me on her throbbing breast,
And pour my spirit out in tears,
She’d look up in my wilder’d eye —
There was no need to speak the rest —
No need to quiet her kind fears —
She did not ask the reason why.  The hallow’d memory of those years
Comes o’er me in these lonely hours,
And, with sweet loveliness, appears
As perfume of strange summer flowers;
Of flowers which we have known before
In infancy, which seen, recall
To mind — not flowers alone — but more,
Our earthly life, and love — and all. VIII.  Yes! she was worthy of all love!
Even such as from the accursed time
My spirit with the tempest strove,
When on the mountain peak alone,
Ambition lent it a new tone,
And bade it first to dream of crime,
My frenzy to her bosom taught:
We still were young: no purer thought
Dwelt in a seraph’s breast than thine;
For passionate love is still divine:
I loved her as an angel might
With ray of the all living light
Which blazes upon Edis’ shrine.
It is not surely sin to name,
With such as mine — that mystic flame,
I had no being but in thee!
The world with all its train of bright
And happy beauty (for to me
All was an undefined delight),
The world — its joy — its share of pain
Which I felt not — its bodied forms
Of varied being, which contain
The bodiless spirits of the storms,
The sunshine, and the calm — the ideal
And fleeting vanities of dreams,
Fearfully beautiful! the real
Nothings of mid-day waking life —
Of an enchanted life, which seems,
Now as I look back, the strife
Of some ill demon, with a power
Which left me in an evil hour,
All that I felt, or saw, or thought,
Crowding, confused became
(With thine unearthly beauty fraught)
Thou — and the nothing of a name. IX.  The passionate spirit which hath known,
And deeply felt the silent tone
Of its own self supremacy, —
(I speak thus openly to thee,
‘Twere folly now to veil a thought
With which this aching breast is fraught)
The soul which feels its innate right —
The mystic empire and high power
Given by the energetic might
Of Genius, at its natal hour;
Which knows (believe me at this time,
When falsehood were a tenfold crime,
There is a power in the high spirit
To know the fate it will inherit)
The soul, which knows such power, will still
Find Pride the ruler of its will.  Yes! I was proud — and ye who know
The magic of that meaning word,
So oft perverted, will bestow
Your scorn, perhaps, when ye have heard
That the proud spirit had been broken,
The proud heart burst in agony
At one upbraiding word or token
Of her that heart’s idolatry —
I was ambitious — have ye known
Its fiery passion? — ye have not —
A cottager, I mark’d a throne
Of half the world, as all my own,
And murmur’d at such lowly lot!
But it had pass’d me as a dream
Which, of light step, flies with the dew,
That kindling thought — did not the beam
Of Beauty, which did guide it through
The livelong summer day, oppress
My mind with double loveliness — ***** X.  We walk’d together on the crown
Of a high mountain, which look’d down
Afar from its proud natural towers
Of rock and forest, on the hills —
The dwindled hills, whence amid bowers
Her own fair hand had rear’d around,
Gush’d shoutingly a thousand rills,
Which as it were, in fairy bound
Embraced two hamlets — those our own —
Peacefully happy — yet alone — *****  I spoke to her of power and pride —
But mystically, in such guise,
That she might deem it nought beside
The moment’s converse; in her eyes
I read...