My tribute to Edgar Allen Poe...
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On a morn of darkest dawn,
As I awoke inside the storm,
I heard a creak, creak, creaking,
Across my bedroom floor.
To the sound I turned my gaze,
Thouhg my eyes were still in haze,
There was nothing but my cat
Sleeping by the door.
I arose to search the gloom,
As I passed across the room,
The candle on my nightstand
Sparked to life.
It was then upon the wall,
Stood a shadow dark and tall,
Bearing a walking stick
And a cape of night.
While outside the rain came down,
In the room was not a sound,
Except the beat, beat, beating,
Of my heart in my throat.
Through this task I could not speak,
As the shadow slowly creep,
Ever closer
Along my bedroom wall.
Until it reached my reading chair,
When a chill arose my hair,
The shadow spoke
Breaking th silence of the room.
Came a tourtured voice of pain,
Clearly rung out through the rain,
To touch my soul
And ease my fear.
He called my name out through the dark,
And the beating stopped my heart,
For the whispers were
Inside my ears.
He was dying so he said,
With many thoughts inside his head,
Yet to be told
To the waiting world.
So he sat me in the chair,
Gave me details of despair.
Of all that needed
Still to be told.
It went on for day and night,
Untill I woke in briliant light,
To a day full of sun
And hope.
Had it been just a dream,
It was real or so it seemed,
But my mind was full
Of the tales he told.
When I stood up to dress,
As though further to impress,
The candle sparked to life once more.
LMB 1991
This is what inspire it...
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." "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 heat, 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!
Edgar Allen Poe 1845
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