Edgar Allan Poe was born January 19th in Boston then died October 7th 1849. The name of his most famous poem is The Raven. A couple of his other work are Spirts of the Dead and The Bells.
The mood of the poem would be mysterious and dark.
The poet's purpose of this poem is to entertain the reader.
The repetition would be spirit because it repeats in the poem sometimes.
The poet's purpose of this poem is to entertain the reader.
The repetition would be spirit because it repeats in the poem sometimes.
Spirts of the Dead
Thy soul shall find itself alone
’Mid dark thoughts of the gray tombstone--
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, tho’ clear, shall frown--
And the stars shall look not 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!
Thy soul shall find itself alone
’Mid dark thoughts of the gray tombstone--
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, tho’ clear, shall frown--
And the stars shall look not 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!