I was a child and she was a child,
In this kingdom by the sea,
But we loved with a love that was more than love—
I and my Annabel Lee—
With a love that the wingèd seraphs of Heaven
Coveted her and me.
Happy birthday Mr. Poe,
As little children by firelight we loved to read your books and poems.
Deep in darkness peering, we waited, wondering, fearing, doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before. Then in bed under thin covers we pulled over our tiny heads, alone we dreamed in fright of figures in the closet or bodies buried beneath the floor. And as the pounding rain continued and a hapless fowl, black and fiery, on the window pain tapped, we screamed:
[Edgar Allen Poe was born this day in Boston on January 19, 1809. His father left the family and his mother died when he was three. In 1826, he entered the University of Virginia and left in disgrace after incurring gambling debts. Returning home he found his sweetheart had left him for another. Poe departed for Greece to help in the revolution but got no further than St. Petersburg and Russia. In 1830, Poe entered West Point. He was unhappy there and six months later, he was expelled. Afterwards he turned full time to writing. He is considered the father of detective fiction.
The Raven was published in 1845.
On October 7, 1847, Poe died in poverty and misery.]