fThe Raven
BY EDGAR ALLAN POE
Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary, Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore— “Sir," said I, “or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping, But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,
As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door— And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door,
"‘Tis some visitor," I muttered, “tapping at my chamber door— That I scarce was sure I heard you”—here I opened wide the door;—
Only this and nothing more.” Darkness there and nothing more.
Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December; Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering,
And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor. fearing,
Eagerly I wished the morrow;—vainly I had sought to borrow Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before;
From my books surcease of sorrow—sorrow for the lost Lenore— But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token,
For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore— And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, “Lenore?”
Nameless here for evermore. This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, “Lenore!”—
Merely this and nothing more.
And the silken, sad, uncertain rustling of each purple curtain
Thrilled me—filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before; Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,
So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating, Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before.
"‘Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door— “Surely," said I, “surely that is something at my window lattice;
Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door;— Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore—
This it is and nothing more.” Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore;—
‘Tis the wind and nothing more!”
Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter, On the morrow he will leave me, as my hopes have flown before.”
In there stepped a stately Raven of the saintly days of yore; Then the bird said “Nevermore.”
Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he;
But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door— Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,
Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door— “Doubtless," said I, “what it utters is its only stock and store
Perched, and sat, and nothing more. Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful Disaster
Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore—
Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling, Till the dirges of his Hope that melancholy burden bore
By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore, Of ‘Never—nevermore.'"
“Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou," I said, “art sure no
craven, But the Raven still beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,
Ghastly grim and ancient Raven wandering from the Nightly shore— Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird, and bust and
Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night’s Plutonian shore!” door;
Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.” Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking
Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore—
Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly, What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt and ominous bird of yore
Though its answer little meaning—little relevancy bore; Meant in croaking “Nevermore.”
For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being
Ever yet was blest with seeing bird above his chamber door— This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing
Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door, To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom’s core;
With such name as “Nevermore.” This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining
On the cushion’s velvet lining that the lamp-light gloated o’er,
But the Raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only But whose velvet violet lining with the lamp-light gloating o’er,
That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour. She shall press, ah, nevermore!
Nothing further then he uttered—not a feather then he fluttered—
Till I scarcely more than muttered “Other friends have flown before—
Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen “Be that word our sign in parting, bird or fiend!” I shrieked,
censer upstarting—
Swung by Seraphim whose foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor. “Get thee back into the tempest and the Night’s Plutonian shore!
“Wretch," I cried, “thy God hath lent thee—by these angels he hath Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!
sent thee Leave my loneliness unbroken!—quit the bust above my door!
Respite—respite and nepenthe, from thy memories of Lenore; Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!”
Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe and forget this lost Lenore!” Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”
Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”
And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
“Prophet!” said I, “thing of evil!—prophet still, if bird or devil!— On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;
Whether Tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore, And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon’s that is dreaming,
Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted— And the lamp-light o’er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;
On this home by Horror haunted—tell me truly, I implore— And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor
Is there—is there balm in Gilead?—tell me—tell me, I implore!” Shall be lifted—nevermore!
Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”
“Prophet!” said I, “thing of evil—prophet still, if bird or devil!
By that Heaven that bends above us—by that God we both adore—
Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn,
It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore—
Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore.”
Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”
