Poems By Edgar Allan Poe For Sleeping

A various collection of poems composed by Edgar Allan Poe read over the calming sound of a fireplace meant to be listened to as a means of relaxing and ultimately falling asleep. Considering the nature of the "Poe"ms, it is meant for those who feel comfortable with listening to dark themes and falling asleep to them.
Fireplace sounds from freesound

Transcript

The Raven by Edgar Allen Poe Once upon a midnight dreary,

While I pondered weak and weary Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore,

While I nodded nearly napping,

Suddenly there came a tapping,

As of someone gently rapping,

Rapping at my chamber door,

Tis some visitor I muttered,

Tapping at my chamber door,

Only this and nothing more.

Ah,

Distinctly I remember,

It was in the bleak December,

Any separate dying ember wrought its ghosts upon the floor,

Eagerly I wished the morrow,

Vainly I had sought to borrow,

From my books a seize of sorrow,

Sorrow for the lost Lenore,

For the rare and radiant maiden,

Whom the angels named Lenore,

Nameless here forevermore.

And the silken sad and certain rustling of each purple curtain,

Thrilled me,

Filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before,

For that now to steal the beating of my heart,

I stood repeating,

Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door,

Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door,

This is it and nothing more.

Presently my soul grew stronger,

Hesitating then no longer,

Sir,

Said I,

O madam truly of forgiveness I implore,

But the fact is I was napping and so gently you came rapping,

And so faintly you came tapping,

Tapping at my chamber door,

That I scarce was so I heard you,

Here I opened wide the door,

Darkness there and nothing more.

Deep into that darkness peering,

Long I stood there wondering,

Fearing,

Doubting,

Dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before,

But the silence was unbroken and the stillness gave no token,

And the only word that spoken was the whispered word Lenore,

This I whispered and an arco moment back the word Lenore,

Merely this and nothing more.

Back into the chamber turning,

All my soul within me burning,

Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before,

Surely,

Said I,

Surely there is something at my window lathes,

Let me see then what there at is,

This mystery explore,

Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore,

Tis the wind and nothing more.

Open here I flung the shutter,

When with many a flutter and flutter,

In their step the stately raven of the saintly days of yore,

Not the least obeisance made he,

Not a minute stopped or stayed he,

But with mien of lord or lady,

Pudged above my chamber door,

Pudged upon a bust of palace,

Just above my chamber door,

Pudged and sat and nothing more.

Then this ebony bird beguiling,

My sad fancy into smiling,

By the grave and stern decorum Of the continents it wore,

Though thy crest be shorn and shaven thou,

I said,

Art sure no craven.

Ghastly grim an ancient raven,

Wandering from the nightly shore,

Tell me what thy lordly name is On the night's Plutonian shore,

Quoth the raven,

Nevermore.

Much I marvel this ungainly fowl To hear this ghost so plainly,

Though its answer little meaning,

Little relevance he bore,

For we cannot help agreeing That no living human being Ever yet was blessed with seeing Bird above his chamber door.

Little beast upon this sculptured bust Above his chamber door,

With such a name as Nevermore.

But the raven sitting lonely On the placid burst-buck only,

Let one word as of his soul,

And that one word he did outpour,

Nothing farther than he uttered,

Not a feather than he fluttered,

Till I scarcely more than muttered,

Other friends have flown before,

On the morrow he will leave me,

As my hopes have flown before,

Than the bird said,

Nevermore.

Start with that stiltness broken By a reply so aptly spoken,

Doubtless,

Said I,

What it utters Is its only stock and stall,

Caught from some unhappy master Whom a merciful disaster,

Followed fast and followed faster Till his songs on one bird and bore,

Till the dirges of his hope That melancholy bird and bore,

Of Never,

Nevermore.

But the raven still beguiling All my fancy into smiling,

Straight I wheeled a cushion seat In front of bird and bust and door,

Then upon the velvet sinking I betook myself to linking,

Fancy unto fancy thinking What this ominous bird of yore,

What this grim ungainly ghastly gaunt And ominous bird of yore,

Ment and croaking Nevermore.

This I sat engaged in guessing But no syllable expressing,

To the fowl whose fiery eyes Now burned into my bosom's core,

Press and more I sat divining With my head at ease reclining On the cushion's velvet lining That lamp-like-glotted oar,

But whose velvet-violet lining With the lamp-like-gloting oar,

She shall press,

Ah,

Nevermore.

Then methoth the agro-dancer Perfumed from an unseen censer,

Swung by seraphim whose footfalls Tinkled on the tufted floor.

Wretch,

I cried,

Thy god hath lent thee,

By the angels he hath sent thee.

Respite,

Respite and repent thee From thy memories of Lenore.

Quaff,

Oh,

Quaff this kind,

Repent thee,

And forget this lost Lenore.

Quoth the raven,

Nevermore.

Prophet said I,

Thing of evil,

Prophet still,

If bird or devil,

Whether tempest sent or whether tempest Toss thee here ashore,

Desolate yet all and dounted On this desert land enchanted,

On this home by horror haunted Tell me truly,

I implore,

Is there,

Is there balm and gilead Tell me,

Tell me,

I implore,

Quoth the raven,

Nevermore.

Prophet said I,

Thing of evil,

Prophet still,

If bird or devil,

By that heaven that bends above us,

By the god we both adore,

Tell this so with sorrow laden,

If within the distant aden,

Yet shall clasp sainted maiden Whom the angels name Lenore,

Clasp a clear and radiant maiden Whom the angels name Lenore,

Quoth the raven,

Nevermore.

Be that word or sign of partying,

Bird or fiend,

I shrecked upstarting,

Get thee back into the tempest And night's plutonium shore,

Leave no black plume as a token Of that lie thy so had spoken,

Leave me loveliness unbroken,

Quit the bust above my door,

Take thy beak from out my heart,

And take thy form from off my door,

Quoth the raven,

Nevermore.

And the raven never flitting,

Still is sitting,

Still is sitting,

On the pallid bust of palace,

Just above my chamber door,

And his eyes have all the seeming Of the demons that is dreaming,

And the lamp light o'er him streaming,

Throws his shadow on the floor,

And my soul from out the shadow That lies floating on the floor,

Shall be lifted nevermore.

A Dream by Edgar Allan Poe In visions of the dark night I have dreamed of joy departed,

But a waking dream of life and light Hath left me broken-hearted.

Ah!

What is not a dream by day To him whose eyes are cast On things around him with a ray Turned back upon the past?

That holy dream,

That holy dream,

While all the world were chiding,

Hath cheered me as a lovely beam,

A lonely spirit guiding.

What though that light through storm and night So trembled from afar?

What could there be more purely bright,

And truce they star?

A Dream by Edgar Allan Poe From my childhood's hour I have not been,

As others were I have not seen,

As others saw I could not bring,

My passions from a common spring,

From the same source I have not taken,

My sorrow I could not awaken,

My heart to joy at the same tone,

And all I loved I loved alone.

Then,

In my childhood,

In the dawn,

Of a most stormy life was drawn,

From every death of good and ill,

The mystery which binds me still,

From the torrent of fountain,

From the red cliff of the mountain,

From the sun that surround me rolled,

In its autumn tint of gold,

From the lightning in the sky,

As it passed me flying by,

From the thunder and the storm,

And the cloud that thick the form,

When the rest of heaven was blue,

Of a demon in my view.

Annabel Lee by Edgar Allan Poe It was many and many a year ago,

In a kingdom by the sea,

That a maiden there lived whom you may know,

By the name of Annabel Lee,

And this maiden she lived with no other thought Than to love and be loved by me.

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 wings seraphs of heaven,

Coveted her and me.

And this was the reason that long ago,

In this kingdom by the sea,

A wind blew out of a cold chilling,

My beautiful Annabel Lee,

So that her high-born kinsman came,

And bore her away from me,

To shut her up in a sepulture,

In this kingdom by the sea.

The angels not half so happy in heaven,

Went envying her and me.

Yes,

That was the reason,

As all men know in this kingdom by the sea,

That the wind came out of the cloud by night,

Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee.

But our love it was stronger by far than the love,

Of those who were older than we,

Of many far wiser than we,

And neither the angels in heaven above,

Nor the demons down under the sea,

Can ever deceive my soul,

On the soul of the beautiful Annabel Lee.

For the moon never beams without bringing me dreams,

Of the beautiful Annabel Lee,

And the stars never rise,

But I feel the bright eyes of the beautiful Annabel Lee.

And so all the night-tide I lay down by the side,

Of my darling,

My darling,

My life,

And my bride,

In her sepulture by the sea,

In her tomb by the sounding sea.

For Annie by Edgar Allan Poe Thank heaven the crisis,

The danger is past,

And the lingering illness is over at last,

And a fever called living is conquered at last.

Sadly I know I am shorn of my strength,

And no muscle I move as I lie at full length,

But no matter I feel I am better at length.

And I rest so composedly now in my bed,

That any beholder might fancy me dead,

My sod at beholding me,

Thinking me dead.

The moaning and groaning,

The sighing and sobbing,

Are quiet now with the horrible throbbing,

At heart ah that horrible,

Horrible throbbing.

The sickness,

The nausea,

The pitiless pain,

Have ceased with the fever that maddened my brain,

With the fever called living that burned in my brain.

And oh of all torches that torture the worst,

Has abated this horrible torture of thirst,

For the naphthalene river of passion accursed,

I have drank'd of a water that quenches all thirst.

Of a water that flows with a lullaby sound,

From a string but a very few feet underground,

From a cavern not very far down on the ground.

And ah let it never be foolishly said,

That my room it is gloomy and narrow my bed,

For a man never slept in a different bed,

And to sleep you must lumber in just such a bed.

My tantalized spirit here blandly reposes,

Forgetting or never regretting its roses,

Its old agitations of middles and roses.

For now while I so quietly lying it fancies,

A holier odor about it of pansies,

A rosemary odor commingled with pansies,

With rue and a beautiful pirot and pansies.

And so it lies happily bathing in many,

A dream of the truth and the beauty of any,

Drowned in a bath of the tresses of any.

She tenderly kissed me,

She fondly caressed,

And then I gently to sleep on her breast,

Deeply to sleep from the heaven of her breast.

Where the light was extinguished she covered me warm,

And she prayed to the angels to keep me from harm,

To the queen of the angels to shield me from harm.

And I lie so compositely now in my bed,

Knowing her love that you fancy me dead,

And I rest so contentedly now in my bed,

With her love at my breast that you fancy me dead,

That you shudder to look at me thinking me dead.

But my heart it is brighter than all of the many,

Stars in the sky for its sprinkles with Annie,

It glows with the light of the love of my Annie,

With the thought of the light of the eyes of my Annie.

To Helen By Edgar Ellen Poe Helen,

Thy beauty is to me like those in sand-barks of yule,

That gently o'er a perfumed sea,

The weary way one wanderer bore,

To his own native shore,

On desperate seas long want to roam,

Thy hyacinth hair,

Thy classic face,

Thy nigh-ed airs have brought me home,

To the glory that was Greece,

And the grandeur that was Rome.

Glow in yon brilliant window-niche,

How stature-like I see thee stand,

The agate-lamp within thy hand,

Ah,

Psych from regions which are holy land.

To Ullulum A Ballad By Edgar Ellen Poe The skies they were ashen and sober,

The leaves they were crisp and sear,

The leaves they were withering and sear,

It was night in the lonesome October,

Of my most immemorial year.

It was hard by the dim lake of Oba,

In the misty mid-region of Weir,

It was down by the dank torn of Oba,

In the gold-haunted woodland of Weir.

Here once,

Through an alley titanic,

Of Cyprus I roamed with my soul,

Of Cyprus with psych my soul.

These were days when my heart was volcanic,

As Cascoriac rivers that roll,

As the lavas that restlessly roll,

The sulfurous currents down Yannic,

In the ultimate climes of the pole,

That groan as they row down Mount Yannic,

In the realms of the boreal pole.

Our talk had been serious and sober,

But our thoughts they were pulsed and sear,

Our memories were treacherous and sear,

For we knew not the month was October,

And we marked not the night of the year.

Ah,

Night of all nights in the year!

We noted not the dim lake of Oba,

Though once we had journeyed down here,

We remembered not the dank torn of Oba,

Nor the gold-haunted woodland of Weir.

And now as the night was senescent,

And the stardust pointed the morn,

As the stardust hinted of morn,

At the end of our path a lequestent and nebulous lustre was born,

Out of which a miraculous crescent Arose with a duplicate horn,

A stardust-but-diamond crescent,

Distinct with its duplicate horn.

And I said she is warmer than Dion,

She rose through an ether of size,

She revels in a region of size,

She has seen that the tears are not dry on These cheeks where the warm never dies,

And has come past stars of the lion,

To point us the path to the skies,

To the lithian piece of the skies,

Come up in despite of the lion,

To shine on us with her bright eyes,

Come up through the lair of the lion,

With love in her luminous eyes.

And Psyche,

Uplifting her finger,

Said sadly this I mistrust,

Her polo I strangely mistrust,

O Hasten,

O let us not linger,

O fly,

Let us fly,

For we must,

In terror she spoke,

Letting sink her,

Wings till they trailed in the dust,

In agony sobbed,

Letting sink her,

Blooms till they railed in the dust,

Till they sorrowfully trailed in the dust.

I replied,

This is nothing but dreaming,

Let us on by this tremulous light,

Let us bathe in this crystalline light,

Its sibilant splendor is beaming,

With hope and in beauty tonight,

See it flickers up the sky through the night,

Ah,

We safely may trust to its gleaming,

And be sure it will lead us all right,

We safely may trust to a gleaming,

That cannot but guide us all right,

As it flickers up to the heaven through the night.

Thus I pacified Psyche and kissed her,

And tempted her out of gloom,

And conquered her scruples and gloom,

And we passed to the end of the vista,

But were stopped by the door of a tomb,

By the door of a legend at tomb,

And I said,

What is written,

Sweet sister,

On the door of this legend at tomb?

She replied,

Oolaloo,

Oolaloo,

Tis the vault of thy lost Oolaloo.

Then my heart had grew ashen and sober,

As the leaves that were crisp and sear,

As the leaves that were withering and sear,

And I cried,

It was surely October,

On this very night of last year,

That I journeyed,

I journeyed down here,

That I brought a tread-burden down here,

On this night of all nights in the year,

O,

What demon has tempted me here?

Well I know now this dim lake of Alba,

This misty mid-region of Vea,

Well I know now this stank torn of oba,

In the gull-haunted woodland of Vea.

Said we,

Then the two,

Then are,

Can it have been the woodlandish gulls,

The pitiful,

The merciful gulls,

To bar up our way and to ban it,

From the secret that lies in these walls,

From the thing that lies hidden in these walls,

Had drawn up the spectre of a planet,

From the limbo of lunari souls,

This sinfully scintillant planet,

From the hell of the planetary souls.

A Dream Within a Dream by Edgar Allan Poe Take this kiss upon the brow,

And imparting from you now,

Thus much let me a vow,

You are not wrong,

Houdini,

That my days have been a dream,

Yet if hope has flown away,

In a night or in a day,

In a vision or in none,

Is it therefore the less gone?

All that we see or seem Is but a dream within a dream.

I stand amid the roar Of a surf-tornamented shore,

And I hold within my hand Grains of the golden sand,

How few yet how they creep Through my fingers to the deep,

While I weep,

While I weep,

O God,

Can I not grasp Them with a tighter clasp,

O God,

Can I not save One from the pitiless wave?

Is all that we see or seem But a dream within a dream?

Dreamland by Edgar Allan Poe By a route obscure and lonely,

Haunted by ill angels only,

Where an eidolon named night On a black throne reigns upright,

I have reached these lands but newly,

From an ultimate dim Thule,

From a wild we recline That leith sublime,

Out of space,

Out of time.

Bottomless vales and boundless flirts,

And chasms and caves and titan woods,

With forms that no man can discover,

For the tears that drip all over,

Mountains toppling evermore,

Into seas without a shore,

Seas that restlessly aspire,

Surging onto skies of fire,

Lakes that endlessly outspread,

Their lone waters lone and dead,

Their still waters still and chilly,

With the snows of the lolling lily.

By the lakes that theirs outspread,

Their lone waters lone and dead,

Their sad waters sad and chilly,

With the snows of the lolling lily,

By the mountains near the river,

Murmuring lowly,

Murmuring ever,

By the grey woods,

By the swamp,

Where the toad and the newton comp,

By the dismal tarns and pools,

Where dwell the ghouls,

By each spot the most unholy,

In each nuke most melancholy.

There the traveller meets a ghast,

Sheeted memories of the past,

Sharded forms that start and sigh,

As they pass the wanderer by,

White-robed forms of friends long given,

In agony to the earth and heaven.

Over the heart whose woes are legion,

Tis a peaceful soothing region,

For the spirit that walks in shadow,

This oh,

This an eldorado,

But the traveller travelling through it,

May not,

Dare not openly view it,

Never its mysteries are exposed,

Through the weak human eye enclosed,

So wills its king who hath forbid,

The uplifting of friend lit,

And thus the sad soul that here passes,

Beholds it but through darkened glasses.

By a route obscure and lonely,

Haunted by ill angels only,

Where an idol on named night,

On a black-thrown reins upright,

I have wandered home but newly,

From this ultimate dim tooly.

Fairyland by Edgar Allan Poe Dim veils and shadowy floods,

And cloudy-looking woods,

Whose forms we can't discover,

For the tears that drip all over,

Huge moon their wax and wane,

Again,

Again,

Again.

Every moment of the night,

Forever changing places,

And they put out the starlight,

With the breath from their pale faces.

About twelve by the moon-dial,

One more family than the rest,

A kind which upon trial They have found to be the best.

Comes down,

Still down and down,

With its center on the crown,

Off a mountain's eminence,

While its wide circumference In easy drapery falls,

Over hamlets,

Over halls,

Wherever they may be,

Over the strange woods,

Over the sea,

Over spirits on the wing,

Over every drowsy thing,

And buries them up quite,

In a labyrinth of light.

And then how deep,

Oh deep,

Is the passion of their sleep,

In the morning they rise,

And their moon-y covering Soaring in the skies,

With the tempests as they toss,

Like almost anything,

Or a yellow albatross.

They use that moon no more,

Or the same man as before,

Vigilance at a tent,

Which I think extravagant,

Its atomies,

However,

Into a shower discover,

Of which those butterflies of earth,

Who seek the skies,

And so come down again,

Never contented things,

Have brought a specimen Upon their quivering wings.

ISRAEL By Edgar Allen Poe In heaven a spirit doth dwell,

Whose heart-strings are aloof,

None sings so wildly well,

As the angel Israel fell,

And the giddy stars,

So legends tell,

Seizing their hymns a tender spell,

Of his voice all mute.

Tottering above in her highest noon,

The enamored moon blushes with love,

Wild to listen the red,

Even with the rapid play it even,

Which our seven pauses in heaven.

And they say the story choir,

And the other listening things,

That the Israel's fire Is owing through the lyre,

By which he sits and sings The trembling living wire,

Of those unusual strings.

But the skies that angels trod,

Where deep thoughts are aduty,

Where loves are grown up guard,

Where the hurried glances are,

Imbued with all the beauty Which we worship in a star.

Therefore thou art not wrong,

Israel fairly who despises,

An unimpassioned song,

To thee the laures belong,

Best barred because the wisest,

Merrily live and long.

With their ecstasies above,

With thy burning measures suit,

Thy grief,

Thy joy,

Thy hate,

Thy love,

With the fervour of thy lute,

Well may the stars be mute.

Yes,

Heaven is thine,

But this is a world of sweets and sours,

Of flowers or merely flowers,

And the shadow of thy perfect bliss,

Is the sunshine of ours.

If I could dwell,

Where Israel hath dwelf,

And he where I,

He might not sing so wildly well,

A mortal melody,

While a bolder note than this might swell,

For my lyre within the sky.

The Sleeper by Edgar Allan Poe At midnight in the month of June,

I stand beneath the mystic moon,

An opiate vapor dewy dim,

Exhales from her golden rim,

And softly dripping drop by drop,

Upon the quiet mountaintop,

Steals drowsily and musically Into the universal valley.

The rosemary nods upon the grave,

The lily lolls upon the wave,

Wrapping the fog about its breast,

The ruin moulders into rest.

Looking like leith,

See the lake,

And conscious slumber seems to take,

And would not,

For the world awake,

All beauty sleeps and low were lies,

Irene with her destinies.

O Lady Bright,

Can it be right,

This window open to the night?

The wanton airs from the treetop,

Laughingly through the lattice drop,

The bodiless air as a wizard drought,

Flit through thy chamber in and out,

And waved a curtain canopy,

So fitfully,

So fearfully,

Above the clothes and fringed lid,

Neath thy slumbering soul I sit,

That o'er the flow and down the wall,

Like ghosts the shadows rise and fall.

O Lady dear,

Hast thou no fear?

Why and what art thou dreaming here?

Share thou outcome o'er far off seas,

A wonder to these garden trees,

Strange is thy pillow,

Strange thy dress,

Strange above all thy length of dress,

And this all-solemn silentness.

The Lady sleeps,

O may her sleep,

Which is enduring,

So be deep,

Heaven have her in its sacred keep,

This chamber change for one more holy,

This bed for one more melancholy,

I pray to God that she may live,

Forever with an opened eye,

While the pale-sheeted ghosts go by.

My love she sleeps,

O may her sleep,

As it is lasting,

So be deep,

Soft may the warmth about her creep,

Far in the forest dim and old,

For her may some tall vault unfold,

Some vault that oft had flung its black,

The winged panels of her hair,

Back,

The winged panels fluttering back,

Triumphant o'er the crested piles Of her grand family funerals.

Some sepulture remote alone,

Against whose portal she had thrown,

In childhood many an idle stone,

Some tomb from out whose sounding door,

She ne'er shall force an echo more,

Thrilling to think,

Poor child of sin,

It was the dead who groaned within.

Thank you for listening and good night.

Reviews

You have a very soothing voice. Fell fast asleep. Thank you.

you have the perfect voice for your choice of readings. Thank you for sharing yourself with us 🙏

Really enjoyed your recitation of these classic poems. 🙏🏻

These stories are great. So soothing a tone to fall asleep too. Enjoyable for daytime as well... More stories, please. :)

I could listen to your voice all day, so very soothing. Thank you.

While listening to you read I felt the vibrations of your voice throughout my soul...❤️ I mentally thought “he’s an old soul.” Although I don’t like drifting off to sleep listening to dark poetry, I do enjoy your voice. I felt the poetry from a place of love...
Thank YOU 🙏🙏🙏

Love this for falling asleep! I forced myself to listen today at work so I could stay awake for the whole reading. Well done! I’m always asleep within a few minutes.