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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 visiter,” 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 visiter entreating entrance at my chamber door
—
Some late visiter 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 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 I heard again 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 an
instant 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 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
lamplght 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
Angels whose faint 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 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 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 !
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