martes, 19 de enero de 2016


Edgar Allan Poe (BostonEstados Unidos19 de enero de 1809-BaltimoreEstados Unidos7 de octubre de 1849) fue unescritorpoetacrítico y periodista romántico1 2 estadounidense, generalmente reconocido como uno de los maestros universales del relato corto, del cual fue uno de los primeros practicantes en su país. Fue renovador de la novela gótica, recordado especialmente por sus cuentos de terror. Considerado el inventor del relato detectivesco, contribuyó asimismo con varias obras al género emergente de la ciencia ficción.3 Por otra parte, fue el primer escritor estadounidense de renombre que intentó hacer de la escritura su modus vivendi, lo que tuvo para él lamentables consecuencias

Fue bautizado como Edgar Poe en BostonMassachusetts, y sus padres murieron cuando era niño. Fue recogido por un matrimonio adinerado de RichmondVirginia, Frances y John Allan, aunque nunca fue adoptado oficialmente. Pasó un curso académico en la Universidad de Virginia y posteriormente se enroló, también por breve tiempo, en el ejército. Sus relaciones con los Allan se rompieron en esa época, debido a las continuas desavenencias con su padrastro, quien a menudo desoyó sus peticiones de ayuda y acabó desheredándolo. Su carrera literaria se inició con un libro de poemas, Tamerlane and Other Poems(1827).



  • "Tamerlane" ("Tamerlane") (1827)
  • "A..." ("A...") (1827)
  • "Sueños" ("Dreams") (1827)
  • "Espíritus de los muertos" ("Spirit of the Dead") (1827)
  • "Estrella del anochecer" ("Evening Star") (1827)
  • "Un sueño" ("A Dream") (1827)
  • "El día más feliz, la hora más Feliz" ("The Happiest Day, The Happiest Hour) (1827)
  • "El lago: A ..." ("The Lake: To ...") (1827)
  • "Al Aaraaf" ("Al Aaraaf") (1829)
  • "Soneto a la Ciencia" ("Sonnet To Science") (1829)
  • "Solo" ("Alone") (1829)
  • "A Elena" ("To Helen") (1831)
  • "La ciudad en el mar" ("The City in the Sea") (1831)
  • "La durmiente" ("The Sleeper") (1831)
  • "El valle de la inquietud" ("The Valley of Unrest") (1831)
  • "Israfel" ("Israfel") (1831)
  • "El Coliseo" ("The Coliseum") (1833)
  • "A alguien en el paraíso" ("To Someone in Paradise") (1834)
  • "Himno" ("Hymn") (1835)
  • "Soneto a Zante" ("Sonnet to Zante") (1837)
  • "Balada nupcial a ..." ("Bridal Ballad to ...") (1837)
  • "El palacio encantado" (The Haunted Palace) (1839)
  • "Soneto del silencio" ("Sonnet-Silence") (1840)
  • "Lenore" ("Lenore") (1843)
  • "Tierra de sueños" ("Dream Land") (1844)
  • "El cuervo ("The Raven") (1845)
  • "Eulalie, una canción" (Eulalie, A Song") (1845)
  • "Ulalume" (1847)
  • "Un sueño en un sueño" ("A Dream Within a Dream") (1849)
  • "Annabel Lee" (1849)
  • "Las campanas" ("The Bells") (1849)
  • "A mi madre" ("To My Mother") (1849)


Ensayo y crítica

  • "Filosofía de la composición" ("The Philosophy of Composition") (1846)
  • "El principio poético" ("The Poetic Principle") (1848)
  • Eureka (1848)
  • "Charles Dickens"
  • "Longfellow"
  • "Hawthorne"
  • "Criptografía"
  • "Arabia pétrea"
  • Marginalia (1844-49)

Spirits of the Dead

Edgar Allan Poe1809 - 1849

Thy soul shall find itself alone
‘Mid dark thoughts of the grey tomb-stone;
Not one, of all the crowd, to pry
Into thine hour of secrecy.

Be silent in that solitude,
Which is not loneliness — for then
The spirits of the dead, who stood
In life before thee, are again
In death around thee, and their will
Shall overshadow thee; be still.

The night, though clear, shall frown,
And the stars shall not look down
From their high thrones in the Heaven
With light like hope to mortals given,
But their red orbs, without beam,
To thy weariness shall seem
As a burning and a fever
Which would cling to thee for ever.

Now are thoughts thou shalt not banish,
Now are visions ne’er to vanish;
From thy spirit shall they pass
No more, like dew-drop from the grass.

The breeze, the breath of God, is still,
And the mist upon the hill
Shadowy, shadowy, yet unbroken,
Is a symbol and a token.
How it hangs upon the trees,
A mystery of mysteries!

The Raven

by Edgar Allan Poe (published 1845)
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.  "'Tis some visitor," 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,  "'Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door-  Some late visitor 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 stood there wondering, fearing,  Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before;  But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token,  And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, "Lenore?"  This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, "Lenore!"-                  Merely this, and nothing more.  Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,  Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before.  "Surely," said I, "surely that is something at my window lattice:  Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore-  Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore;-                  'Tis the wind and nothing more!"  Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,  In there stepped a stately Raven of the saintly days of yore;  Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he;  But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door-  Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door-                  Perched, and sat, and nothing more.  Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,  By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore.  "Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou," I said, "art sure no craven,  Ghastly grim and ancient Raven wandering from the Nightly shore-  Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night's Plutonian shore!"                  Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."  Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,  Though its answer little meaning- little relevancy bore;  For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being  Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door-  Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door,                  With such name as "Nevermore."  But the Raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only  That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.  Nothing further then he uttered- not a feather then he fluttered-  Till I scarcely more than muttered, "Other friends have flown before-  On the morrow he will leave me, as my hopes have flown before."                  Then the bird said, "Nevermore."  Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,  "Doubtless," said I, "what it utters is its only stock and store,  Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful Disaster  Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore-  Till the dirges of his Hope that melancholy burden bore                  Of 'Never- nevermore'."  But the Raven still beguiling all my fancy into smiling,  Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird, and bust and door;  Then upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking  Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore-  What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt and ominous bird of yore                  Meant in croaking "Nevermore."  This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing  To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom's core;  This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining  On the cushion's velvet lining that the lamp-light gloated o'er,  But whose velvet violet lining with the lamp-light gloating o'er,                  She shall press, ah, nevermore!  Then methought the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer  Swung by Seraphim whose footfalls tinkled on the tufted floor.  "Wretch," I cried, "thy God hath lent thee- by these angels he hath sent thee  Respite- respite and nepenthe, from thy memories of Lenore!  Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe and forget this lost Lenore!"                  Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."  "Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil! - prophet still, if bird or devil! -  Whether Tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,  Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted-  On this home by Horror haunted- tell me truly, I implore-  Is there- is there balm in Gilead?- tell me- tell me, I implore!"                  Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."  "Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil! - prophet still, if bird or devil!  By that Heaven that bends above us- by that God we both adore-  Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn,  It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore-  Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore."                  Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."  "Be that word our sign in parting, bird or fiend," I shrieked, upstarting-  "Get thee back into the tempest and the Night's Plutonian shore!  Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!  Leave my loneliness unbroken!- quit the bust above my door!  Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!"                  Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."  And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting  On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;  And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming,  And the lamp-light o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;  And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor                  Shall be lifted- nevermore!  [This version of the poem is from the Richmond Semi-Weekly Examiner, September 25, 1849. It is generally accepted as the final version authorized by Poe. Earlier and later versions had some minor differences. Source] See the Versions of The Raven page.

Imágenes tomadas de Internet
Autor: Robert Allen Goodrich Valderrama