Poems by Edgar Allan Poe

Hymn to Aristogeiton and Harmodius I Wreathed in myrtle, my sword I'll conceal,
Lik...

A dark unfathomed tide
Of interminable pride
A mystery, and a dream,
Should my early life se...

How often we forget all time, when lone
...

In Heaven a spirit doth dwell
"Whose heart-strings are a lute; "
None sing so wildly well
As...

In spring of youth it was my lot
To haunt of the wide world a spot
The which I could not love t...