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.
Edgar Alan Poe wrote my favorite, The Raven. I love this poem, because in it Poe says “well this is my life. I don’t like it, but I’m not going to complain come Hell or high-water.” In comes Hell though, or at least Poe’s, whom I believe is also the protagonist of this poem, inner demons. This particular stanza screams to me every time. It speaks of lost love, and of a romance even in the afterlife. Poe is lamenting the loss of his wife, as well as the loss of many people in his life. I also think that the whole screams of the fact that is immortal, no matter what anyone thinks.