 



The Raven

by

Edgar Allan Poe

 

 Once upon a midnight dreary, while I
pondered, weak and weary, Over many a
quaint and curious volume of forgotten
lore-- While I nodded, nearly napping,
suddenly there came a tapping, As of
some one gently rapping, rapping at my
chamber door. "'Tis some visitor," I
muttered, "tapping at my chamber door--
Only this and nothing more."

 Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the
bleak December, And each separate dying
ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.
Eagerly I wished the morrow;--vainly I
had sought to borrow From my books
surcease of sorrow--sorrow for the lost
Lenore-- For the rare and radiant maiden
whom the angels name Lenore-- Nameless
here for evermore.

 And the silken sad uncertain rustling
of each purple curtain Thrilled
me--filled me with fantastic terrors
never felt before; So that now, to still
the beating of my heart, I stood
repeating "'Tis some visiter entreating
entrance at my chamber door-- Some late
visiter entreating entrance at my
chamber door; This it is and nothing
more."

 Presently my soul grew stronger;
hesitating then no longer, "Sir," said
I, "or Madam, truly your forgiveness I
implore; But the fact is I was napping,
and so gently you came rapping, And so
faintly you came tapping, tapping at my
chamber door, That I scarce was sure I
heard you"--here I opened wide the
door-- Darkness there and nothing
more.

 Deep into that darkness peering, long I
stood there wondering, fearing,
Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortals
ever dared to dream before; But the
silence was unbroken, and the stillness
gave no token, And the only word there
spoken was the whispered word, "Lenore?"
This I whispered, and an echo murmured
back the word, "Lenore!"-- Merely this
and nothing more.

 Back into the chamber turning, all my
soul within me burning, Soon again I
heard a tapping something louder than
before. "Surely," said I, "surely that
is something at my window lattice; Let
me see, then, what thereat is and this
mystery explore-- 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, In there
stepped a stately Raven of the saintly
days of yore. 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-- Perched
upon a bust of Pallas just above my
chamber door-- Perched, and sat, and
nothing more.

 Then the ebony bird beguiling my sad
fancy into smiling, By the grave and
stern decorum of the countenance it
wore, "Though thy crest be shorn and
shaven, thou," I said, "art sure no
craven, Ghastly grim and ancient Raven
wandering from the Nightly shore-- Tell
me what thy lordly name is on the
Night's Plutonian shore!" Quoth the
Raven, "Nevermore."

 Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to
hear discourse so plainly, Though its
answer little meaning--little relevancy
bore; For we cannot help agreeing that
no living human being Ever yet was
blessed with seeing bird above his
chamber door-- Bird or beast upon the
sculptured bust above his chamber door,
With such name as "Nevermore."

 But the Raven, sitting lonely on that
placid bust, spoke only That one word,
as if its soul in that one word he did
outpour Nothing farther then he uttered;
not a feather then he fluttered-- Till I
scarcely more than muttered: "Other
friends have flown before-- On the
morrow _he_ will leave me, as my Hopes
have flown before." Then the bird said
"Nevermore."

 Startled at the stillness broken by
reply so aptly spoken, "Doubtless," said
I, "what it utters is its only stock and
store, Caught from some unhappy master
whom unmerciful Disaster Followed fast
and followed faster till his songs one
burden bore-- Till the dirges of his
Hope that melancholy burden bore Of
'Never--nevermore.'"

 But the Raven still beguiling all my
sad soul into smiling, Straight I
wheeled a cushioned seat in front of
bird and bust and door; Then, upon the
velvet sinking, I betook myself to
linking Fancy unto fancy, thinking what
this ominous bird of yore-- What this
grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and
ominous bird of yore Meant in croaking
"Nevermore."

 This I sat engaged in guessing, but no
syllable expressing To the fowl whose
fiery eyes now burned into my bosom's
core; 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 whose
velvet violet lining with the lamp-light
gloating o'er _She_ shall press, ah,
nevermore!

 Then, methought, the air grew denser,
perfumed from an unseen censer Swung by
Seraphim whose foot-falls tinkled on the
tufted floor. "Wretch," I cried, "thy
God hath lent thee--by these angels he
hath sent thee Respite--respite and
nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore!
Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe and
forget this lost Lenore!" Quoth the
Raven, "Nevermore."

 "Prophet!" said I, "thing of
evil!--prophet still, if bird or
devil!-- Whether Tempter sent, or
whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,
Desolate, yet all undaunted, on this
desert land enchanted-- On this home by
Horror haunted--tell me truly, I
implore-- Is there--_is_ there balm in
Gilead?--tell me--tell me, I implore!"
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."

 "Be that our sign of parting, bird or
fiend!" I shrieked, upstarting-- "Get
thee back into the tempest and the
Night's Plutonian shore! Leave no black
plume as a token of that lie thy soul
has spoken! Leave my loneliness
unbroken!--quit the bust above my door!
Take thy beak from out my heart, and
take thy form from off my door!" Quoth
the Raven, "Nevermore."

 And the Raven, never flitting, still is
sitting, still is sitting On the pallid
bust of Pallas just above my chamber
door; And his eyes have all the seeming
of a demon's that is dreaming And the
lamp-light o'er him streaming throws his
shadows on the floor; And my soul from
out that shadow that lies floating on
the floor 

Shall be lifted--nevermore!



