Poe.

        A great enchanter too is Poe,
        His bells do so harmonious flow,
        Wondrous mystery of his raven
        On our minds is 'ere engraven,
        His wierd, wonderful romances
        Imagination oft entrances.

James McIntyre

James McIntyre was a Canadian poet, most notable for his poetry concerning cheese, cheese-making, dairying, and dairy products. Often referred to as 'The Cheese Poet,' McIntyre's work is celebrated for its earnestness and unintentional humor, making him both a beloved and an infamous figure in literary circles. He emigrated from Scotland to Canada in 1851 and settled in Ingersoll, Ontario, where he became a successful businessman and community leader.

James McIntyre

Fight With A Bear In The Northwest.

James McIntyre, Simple Poetry

Land Clearing.

James McIntyre, Simple Poetry

Little Dora.

James McIntyre, Simple Poetry

English Poets.

James McIntyre, Simple Poetry

English

Suggested Poems

Explore a curated selection of verses that share themes, styles, and emotional resonance with the poem you've just read.

Poe.

I.

Oh, melancholy child of want and woe!
    A brilliant meteor in an ebon sky!
Thy soul's weird music all did flow
    From heart-strings touched by destiny!


II.

The Raven, perched above thy chamber door,
    Responsive croaked with a prophetic word--
For in the realm of song may "Nevermore"
    Such strains as thine by mortal ear be heard!


III.

Where now doth that proud spirit dwell,
    Whose earthly days were clouded o'er with gloom?
In regions with the sweet-voiced "Israfel,"
    Where never-fading flowerets bloom?


IV.

Dost rest within some "distant Aidenn,
    Beyond the Night's Plutonian shore?
And clasp again a sainted maiden
    Whom the angels name Lenore?"


V....

George W. Doneghy

Romance

Romance, who loves to nod and sing,
With drowsy head and folded wing,
Among the green leaves as they shake
Far down within some shadowy lake,
To me a painted paroquet
Hath been, a most familiar bird,
Taught me my alphabet to say,
To lisp my very earliest word
While in the wild wood I did lie,
A child, with a most knowing eye.

Of late, eternal Condor years
So shake the very Heaven on high
With tumult as they thunder by,
I have no time for idle cares
Through gazing on the unquiet sky.
And when an hour with calmer wings
Its down upon my spirit flings,
That little time with lyre and rhyme
To while away, forbidden things!
My heart would feel to be a crime
Unless it trembled with the strings.

Edgar Allan Poe

Fancy And The Poet.

POET.

Enchanting spirit! at thy votive shrine
I lowly bend one simple wreath to twine;
O come from thy ideal world and fling
Thy airy fingers o'er my rugged string;
Sweep the dark chords of thought and give to earth
The wild sweet song that tells thy heavenly birth--


FANCY.

Happiness, when from earth she fled,
    I passed on her heaven-ward flight,--
"Take this wreath," the spirit said,
    "And bathe it in floods of light;
To the sons of sorrow this token give,
And bid them follow my steps and live!"

I took the wreath from her radiant hand,
    Each flower was a silver star;
I turned this dark earth to a fairy land,
    When I hither drove my car;
But I wove the wreath round my tresses bright,
And man only saw its...

Susanna Moodie

To -- (III)

Not long ago, the writer of these lines,
In the mad pride of intellectuality,
Maintained "the power of words", denied that ever
A thought arose within the human brain
Beyond the utterance of the human tongue:
And now, as if in mockery of that boast,
Two words, two foreign soft dissyllables,
Italian tones, made only to be murmured
By angels dreaming in the moonlit "dew
That hangs like chains of pearl on Hermon hill,"
Have stirred from out the abysses of his heart,
Unthought-like thoughts that are the souls of thought,
Richer, far wilder, far diviner visions
Than even seraph harper, Israfel,
(Who has "the sweetest voice of all God's creatures,")
Could hope to utter. And I! my spells are broken.
The pen falls powerless from my shivering hand.
With thy dear n...

Edgar Allan Poe

To Isadore

I

Beneath the vine-clad eaves,
Whose shadows fall before
Thy lowly cottage door,
Under the lilac's tremulous leaves,
Within thy snowy clasped hand
The purple flowers it bore.
Last eve in dreams, I saw thee stand,
Like queenly nymph from Fairy-land,
Enchantress of the flowery wand,
Most beauteous Isadore!


II

And when I bade the dream
Upon thy spirit flee,
Thy violet eyes to me
Upturned, did overflowing seem
With the deep, untold delight
Of Love's serenity;
Thy classic brow, like lilies white
And pale as the Imperial Night
Upon her throne, with stars bedight,
Enthralled my soul to thee!


III

Ah! ever I behold
Thy dreamy, passionate eyes,
Blue as the languid skies
Hung with...

Edgar Allan Poe

An Enigma

"Seldom we find," says Solomon Don Dunce,
"Half an idea in the profoundest sonnet.
Through all the flimsy things we see at once
As easily as through a Naples bonnet,
Trash of all trash! how can a lady don it?
Yet heavier far than your Petrarchan stuff,
Owl-downy nonsense that the faintest puff
Twirls into trunk-paper the while you con it."
And, veritably, Sol is right enough.
The general tuckermanities are arrant
Bubbles, ephemeral and so transparent,
But this is, now, you may depend upon it,
Stable, opaque, immortal- all by dint
Of the dear names that he concealed within't.

Edgar Allan Poe