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 someone gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.
“'Tis some visitor,” I muttered “tapping at my chamber door.
Only that, 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 ever more.
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 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 murmered back the word “Lenore!”
Merely this and nothing more.
Back into my 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 the window lattice.
Let me see 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 obesience made he, not a minute stopped or stayed he,
But with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door.
Perched upon the 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 countenence 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 sculpted bust above his chamber door,
With such a name as Nevermore.
But the raven, sitting lonely, on the placid bust spoke only
That one word, as if its soul in that one word it did outpour.
Nothing further then it uttered, not a feather then it 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 silence 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 ghastly, grim, ungainly, 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 censor,
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, of quaff this kind nepenthe, and forget this lost Lenore.”
Quoth the raven, “Nevermore.”
“Prephet,” said I, “thing of evil, prophet still if bird or devil,
Whether tempter sends or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,
Desolate, yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted,
In 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.”
“Prephet,” said I, “thing of evil, prophet still if bird or devil,
By that heaven that heaven that bends above us, by that God we both adore,
Tell this soul with sorrow laden, if, within the distant Aiden,
It shall clasp a sainted maiden that the angels name Lenore,
Clasp a rare and radiant maiden, that the angels name Lenore.”
Quoth the raven, “nevermore.”
“Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend,” I shrieked, upstarting.
[uhh… I always get stuck here]
"Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken
Leave my loneliness unbroken, and 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 sittting
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.
with apologies to E. A. Poe for the inevitable mistakes, especially in the punctuation.
