Uploaded September 2015 | Updated September 2026, 2 weeks ago
Here's a virtual movie of the great Edgar Allan Poe reading his poem "To Isadore". This poem is considered by some Poe experts of doubtful origin in that it is likely to be at least partially borrowed from other similar works some attribute the poem to Abijah Metcalf the American farmer, editor, author and poet. Abijah Metcalf Ide, Jr.February 2, 1825 - Died: May 22, 1873 whowas born in Attleboro, Bristol, MA. Little is known about this poet or his work, which is sometimes attributed to E A Poe He was born on February 2, 1825 and died in May 1873 in Attleboro, Bristol, MA, USA and his parents were Chloe Read and Abijah Metcalf Ide. He earned his living as a farmer and edited a number of periodicals
Ide started writing poetry early and at the age of 18 he in a letter to E A Poe he claims not to have studied the art of poetry apart from what he learned in elementary school.
He describes himself at the time to Poe in a short extract from one of his own poems as:-
I am eighteen; and
This have I learned, that to my hand,
Is given the labor of the land :
My foot must tread the furrowed ground,
And stand when harvest-time comes round :
To me is given the laborer's care --
In autumn, mine the laborer's share
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 the sunset’s fringe of gold;
Now strangely clear thine image grows,
And olden memories
Are startled from their long repose
Like shadows on the silent snows
When suddenly the night-wind blows
Where quiet moonlight lies.
IV.
Like music heard in dreams,
Like strains of harps unknown,
Of birds for ever flown,—
Audible as the voice of streams
That murmur in some leafy dell,
I hear thy gentlest tone,
And Silence cometh with her spell
Like that which on my tongue doth dwell,
When tremulous in dreams I tell
My love to thee alone!
V.
In every valley heard,
Floating from tree to tree,
Less beautiful to me,
The music of the radiant bird,
Than artless accents such as thine
Whose echoes never flee!
Ah! how for thy sweet voice I pine:—
For uttered in thy tones benign
(Enchantress!) this rude name of mine
Doth seem a melody!
Kind Regards
Jim Clark
All rights are reserved on this video recording copyright Jim Clark 2015
Here's a virtual movie of the great Edgar Allan Poe reading his poem "To Isadore". This poem is considered by some Poe experts of doubtful origin in that it is likely to be at least partially borrowed from other similar works some attribute the poem to Abijah Metcalf the American farmer, editor, author and poet. Abijah Metcalf Ide, Jr.February 2, 1825 - Died: May 22, 1873 whowas born in Attleboro, Bristol, MA. Little is known about this poet or his work, which is sometimes attributed to E A Poe He was born on February 2, 1825 and died in May 1873 in Attleboro, Bristol, MA, USA and his parents were Chloe Read and Abijah Metcalf Ide. He earned his living as a farmer and edited a number of periodicals
Ide started writing poetry early and at the age of 18 he in a letter to E A Poe he claims not to have studied the art of poetry apart from what he learned in elementary school.
He describes himself at the time to Poe in a short extract from one of his own poems as:-
I am eighteen; and
This have I learned, that to my hand,
Is given the labor of the land :
My foot must tread the furrowed ground,
And stand when harvest-time comes round :
To me is given the laborer's care --
In autumn, mine the laborer's share
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 the sunset’s fringe of gold;
Now strangely clear thine image grows,
And olden memories
Are startled from their long repose
Like shadows on the silent snows
When suddenly the night-wind blows
Where quiet moonlight lies.
IV.
Like music heard in dreams,
Like strains of harps unknown,
Of birds for ever flown,—
Audible as the voice of streams
That murmur in some leafy dell,
I hear thy gentlest tone,
And Silence cometh with her spell
Like that which on my tongue doth dwell,
When tremulous in dreams I tell
My love to thee alone!
V.
In every valley heard,
Floating from tree to tree,
Less beautiful to me,
The music of the radiant bird,
Than artless accents such as thine
Whose echoes never flee!
Ah! how for thy sweet voice I pine:—
For uttered in thy tones benign
(Enchantress!) this rude name of mine
Doth seem a melody!
Kind Regards
Jim Clark
All rights are reserved on this video recording copyright Jim Clark 2015
