The Raven

                                              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 visitor entreating entrance

                                                             at my chamber door--

                                              Some late visitor 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 mortal

                                                             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 somewhat

                                                             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 mein of lord or lady, perched

                                                             above my chamber door--

                                              Perched upon my bust of Pallas just

                                                             above my chamber door--

                                                             Perched, and sat, and nothing more.

                                              Then this 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 the

                                                             placid bust, spoke only

                                              That one word, as if his 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 Tempest 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 word 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 hath 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 shadow on the floor;

                                              And my soul from out that shadow that

                                                             lies floating on the floor

                                                             Shall be lifted--nevermore!