Once upon a midnight
dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious volume
of forgotton lore--
While I nodded, nearly napping,
suddenly there came a tapping,
As of someone 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
black 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
forevermore.
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--
That 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 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 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 marveled 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 further 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
fancy 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 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 gloated 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."
"But that word our sign of parting,
bird or friend!" I shrieked, upstarting--
"Get thee back into the tempest and
the Night's Plutonian shore!
Leave no back 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
Shall be lifted --
nevermore!
Edgar
Allen Poe
Marshall
Cultural Atlas
