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The Conqueror Worm
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Lord, help my poor soul! After Poe's death the simplest and sweetest of his ballads,
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Annabel Lee, and the wonderful poem of
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The Bells, were published. His former friend and editor, Griswold, published a scathing denunciation of the dead man in the New York
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Tribune. Poe's fame as a master of the weird and fanciful in literature was already established wherever his thrilling tales and superb poem
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The Raven had penetrated. He was one of the few poets of America at that period who had succeeded in achieving an international reputation. The best of his poems were rendered in choice French by Baudelaire, while his short stories were translated into almost all European languages. As his biographer, Woodberry, has said:
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On the roll of American literature Poe's name is inscribed with the few foremost, and in the world at large his genius is established as valid among all men. Much as he derived nurture from other sources, he was the son of Coleridge by the weird touch in his imagination, by the principles of his analytic criticism, and the speculative bent of his mind. Most characteristic of Poe's genius perhaps are these lines from his famous poem
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The Conqueror Worm