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.

"'T is 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,

" 'T is 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 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;—

'T is 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 blest 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 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 lamplight gloated o'er,

But whose velvet violet lining

With the lamplight gloating o'er

She shall press, ah, nevermore!

Then, methought, the air grew denser,

Perfumed from an unseen censer

Swung by Seraphim, whose footfalls

Tinkled on the tufted floor.

"Wretch," I cried, "thy God hath lent thee—

By these angels he hath sent thee

Respite—respite and nepenthe[1]

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 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 lamplight 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!