T h e R a v e n

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.
"'Tis some visitor," I muttered,
"Tapping at my chamber door-

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-

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;-

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;-

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!"-

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;-

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 mine of lord or lady,
Perched above my chamber door-
Perched upon a bust of Pallas
Just above my chamber door-

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!"

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 blest with seeing
Bird above his chamber door-
Bird or beast upon the sculptured
Bust above his chamber door,

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."

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

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

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,

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,
From thy memories of Lenore!
Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe
And forget this lost Lenore!"

"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!"

"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."

"Be that word our sign in 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!"

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!