Born in Boston in the chilly month of January, 1809 to parents who worked in the theater, young Edgar was orphaned at an early age and adopted by Mr. and Mrs. John Allan. Raised from then on in comfortable surroundings and attending good schools, the family lived for several years in England.

Upon entering the University of Virginia, he quickly developed the habit of a gambler and drinker and amassed great debts. Despite taking honors in Latin and French, while also studying Italian, Spanish, and History, Edgar left the school without taking a degree in 1826.

In 1827 he moved to Boston and published his first works, a volume of Poetry, "Tamerlane and Other Poems by A Bostonian". The work earned him no money and no acclaim.

Partially out of desperation, he enlisted in the Army. Later, Poe would show his embarrassment of this by ignoring his service and instead creating a fictitious tour of Europe for his memoirs. Despite this apparent distaste for military life, he was accepted as a West Point cadet. He lasted a mere 7 months before purposefully getting himself dismissed.

Free of the military, and now developing a following of readers for his literary efforts, Edgar moved to New York City and lived for a time as a struggling writer. Later he would move to Philadelphia, where his career began to flourish although he was still not earning enough money to support himself.

Edgar became enamoured of and finally wed his cousin, Virginia, in 1836. He loved her desperately.

On January 30, 1847 Virginia died after a prolonged illness. Although he suffered a collapse after her passing, he continued to write and eventually fell in love with, and became engaged to, Sarah Shelton. Sadly, Edgar Allan Poe passed away before they could be wed.

"With me poetry has not been a purpose, but a passion." ---Edgar Allan Poe

Virginia Poe, Wife of Edgar Allan Poe...
Buy From Art.com

Take this kiss upon the brow!
And, in parting from you now,
Thus much let me avow-
You are not wrong, who deem
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-tormented 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?

Gothicrow Photography

Title Page of "Les Poemes...
Buy From Art.com

The events surrounding Mr. Poe's death have been steeped in speculation and mystery even before he was placed in his tomb. Writers have expounded on the subject ever since.

On September 27, 1849 he left Virginia to travel his home in New York. Poe's whereabouts are unknown until a week later on October 3, when he was found un-kempt and delirious on the streets of Baltimore outside of a tavern. After being taken to Washington College Hospital, he floated in and out of conscious, never coherant enough to explain what had transpired how he came to be in such a state. He died at 5 A.M. on October 7th.

Here's A great article from the Edgar Allan Poe Society on his "mysterious death".
The Mysterious Death of Edgar Allan Poe

From CelebrityMorgue.com

After a small funeral, Edgar Allan Poe was buried at Westminster Hall and Burying Ground. He was buried in a cheap coffin that lacked handles, a nameplate, cloth lining, or a cushion for his head.

Poe was originally buried without a headstone towards the rear corner of the churchyard near his grandfather, David Poe, Sr. It was marked with a plain sandstone marker.



His literary renown grew postumously. Several years after his death it was decided that the great writer should have a more fitting memorial. With great pomp and pagentry, his body was exhumed and re-interred under a marble marker.

For the memorial service, fellow poet Alfred Tennyson wrote a poem in his honor:

"Fate that once denied him,

And envy that once decried him,

And malice that belied him,

Now cenotaph his fame."



Unfortunately, the workers charged with digging up Poe's remains had difficulty finding the right body, first exhuming the incorrect one. Today, along with the newer memorial, a headstone marks the spot where the poet was originally interred.

And to this headstone, a visitor arrives each year on January 19th, the anniversary of Poe's birthday.

Each year since 1949 (possibly longer), in the early morning hours of January 19, a stranger walks to the rear yard of Westminster Hall and Burial Ground and approaches the raven-clad stone marking the original resting place of the author. Dressed all in black and carrying a silver-tipped walking stick, the mysterious figure pauses at Poe's grave, raises a toast, and leaves 3 red roses and a half full bottle of cognac behind.

Who is this person?

Why does he (or she) come every year without fail?

What do the cane, the cognac, and the roses symbolize?

No one really knows............



The roses are believed to be left in memory of Poe, his wife Virginia, and his mother-in-law Maria Clemm, who are both interred at the spot with him. The significance of the cognac itself is unknown. Many of the bottles left behind have been taken and stored by the Edgar Allan Poe Society of Baltimore.

The Toaster wears a black coat and hat, and obscures his or her face with a scarf or hood. A group of reporters and Poe enthusiasts are usually on hand to try and catch a glimpse.



On several occasions, the Toaster has left notes in addition to the usual tribute. Some of these are simple expressions of devotion, such as one that read "Edgar, I haven't forgotten you."

In 1993 a note was left reading "the torch will be passed", indicating that a new individual would be assuming the role.

Buy From Art.com

Do you enjoy the photography I've used on this page? We owe a great deal of gratitude to Gothicrow Photography for graciously allowing me to use her stunning art on this lens. It is an honor to be granted such generous permission by an artist to show her work on my lens.

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

Elizabeth it is in vain you say
"Love not" - thou sayest it in so sweet a way:
In vain those words from thee or L. E. L.
Zantippe's talents had enforced so well:
Ah! if that language from thy heart arise,
Breathe it less gently forth - and veil thine eyes.
Endymion, recollect, when Luna tried
To cure his love - was cured of all beside -
His folly - pride - and passion - for he died.