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Lenore is a poem by american writer edgar allan poe, published in 1831. This poem is known for its themes of loss, mourning, and the afterlife. The poem tells the story of a man, guy de vere, who has lost his love lenore and contemplates the meaning of her death. The opening lines express the speaker's grief and the need for mourning, while later parts of the poem suggest the possibility of lenore's soul ascending to heaven. The poem's structure and language reflect poe's mastery of poetic form and his ability to evoke powerful emotions.
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Poe, Edgar Allan (1809-49) - American poet, short-story writer, and critic who is best known for his tales of ratiocination, his fantastical horror stories, and his genre-founding detective stories. Poe, whose cloudy personal life is a virtual legend, considered himself primarily a poet. Lenore (1831) - One of Poe’s poems. Opening lines: Ah, broken is the golden bowl!- the spirit flown forever! / Let the bell toll!- a saintly soul floats on the Stygian river; ...
Ah, broken is the golden bowl! the spirit flown forever!
Let the bell toll!- a saintly soul floats on the Stygian river; And, Guy de Vere, hast thou no tear?- weep now or nevermore!
See! on yon drear and rigid bier low lies thy love, Lenore!
Come! let the burial rite be read- the funeral song be sung!An anthem for the queenliest dead that ever died so youngA dirge for her the doubly dead in that she died so young. “Wretches! ye loved her for her wealth and hated her for her pride, And when she fell in feeble health, ye blessed her- that she died!
How shall the ritual, then, be read?- the requiem how be sung By you- by yours, the evil eye,- by yours, the slanderous tongue That did to death the innocence that died, and died so young?” Peccavimus; but rave not thus! and let a Sabbath song Go up to God so solemnly the dead may feel no wrong.
The sweet Lenore hath “gone before,” with Hope, that flew beside, Leaving thee wild for the dear child that should have been thy bride.
For her, the fair and debonair, that now so lowly lies, The life upon her yellow hair but not within her eyes The life still there, upon her hair- the death upon her eyes. -
“Avaunt! avaunt! from fiends below, the indignant ghost is rivenFrom Hell unto a high estate far up within the HeavenFrom grief and groan, to a golden throne, beside the King of Heaven!
Let no bell toll, then,- lest her soul, amid its hallowed mirth, Should catch the note as it doth float up from the damned Earth!
And I!- to-night my heart is light!- no dirge will I upraise, But waft the angel on her flight with a Paean of old days!”
