The Raven, 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 called 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 darkness 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 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 above 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 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 has 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 named Lenore - 

Clasp a rare and radiant maiden, whom the angels named 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!