To Poe.

You lived in a land horror-haunted,
    And wrote with a pen half-divine;
You drank bitter sorrow, undaunted
    And cast precious pearls before swine.

Edwin C. Ranck

Edwin C. Ranck was an American lyricist noted for his work in the early 20th century. He was a prolific writer and his lyrics were often characterized by their humor and wit. One of his standout works is the poem 'The Optimist', which reflects his positive outlook on life. Beyond that, little is known about his personal life or career. He remains a somewhat obscure figure in literary history.

Edwin C. Ranck

Take Up The Household Burden.

Edwin C. Ranck, Simple Poetry

A New Version.

Edwin C. Ranck, Simple Poetry

The Epic Of The Hog.

Edwin C. Ranck, Simple Poetry

The Alarm Clock.

Edwin C. Ranck, 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

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 Marie Louise (Shew).

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 the 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...

Edgar Allan Poe

In Deeper Vein.

The Incubus.


The way was dark within the gloomy church-yard,
    As I wandered through the woodland near the stream,
With slow and heavy tread
    Through a city of the dead,
When suddenly I heard a dreadful scream.

My heart gave frantic leap, as when the roebuck
    Is started by the clamor of the chase,
And I halted all atremble
    In the vain hope to dissemble,
Or cloak the leaden pallor on my face.

'Twas in the ghostly month of grim December,
    The frozen winds were bitter in their cry
And I muttered half aloud
    To that white and silent crowd:
"'Tis a somber month to live in or to die."

And then as if in answer to my whisper,
    Came a voice of some foul fiend from Hell:
"No longer live say I,
    'Tis be...

Edwin C. Ranck

The Lake

In spring of youth it was my lot
To haunt of the wide world a spot
The which I could not love the less,
So lovely was the loneliness
Of a wild lake, with black rock bound,
And the tall pines that towered around.

But when the Night had thrown her pall
Upon the spot, as upon all,
And the mystic wind went by
Murmuring in melody,
Then,ah, then, I would awake
To the terror of the lone lake.

Yet that terror was not fright,
But a tremulous delight,
A feeling not the jewelled mine
Could teach or bribe me to define,
Nor Love,although the Love were thine.

Death was in that poisonous wave,
And in its gulf a fitting grave
For him who thence could solace bring
To his lone imagining,
Whose solitary soul could make
An Eden of t...

Edgar Allan Poe

To The Lake

In spring of youth it was my lot
To haunt of the wide world a spot
The which I could not love the less,
So lovely was the loneliness
Of a wild lake, with black rock bound,
And the tall pines that towered around.

But when the Night had thrown her pall
Upon that spot, as upon all,
And the mystic wind went by
Murmuring in melody,
Then, ah then I would awake
To the terror of the lone lake.

Yet that terror was not fright,
But a tremulous delight,
A feeling not the jewelled mine
Could teach or bribe me to define,
Nor Love, although the Love were thine.

Death was in that poisonous wave,
And in its gulf a fitting grave
For him who thence could solace bring
To his lone imagining,
Whose solitary soul could make
An Eden of ...

Edgar Allan Poe