The Raven

Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary, over many strange old books of forgotten knowledge, I nodded and nearly fell asleep. Suddenly I heard a tapping, as if someone was gently knocking at my bedroom door. “It’s some visitor,” I said quietly, “knocking at my bedroom door— only this and nothing more.”

Ah, I clearly remember it was in the cold, dark December, and the last red coals of the fire made shadows like ghosts on the floor. I wished for morning. I had tried to find in my books an end to my sadness, my sadness for the lost Lenore. She is a rare and beautiful young woman, and the angels call her Lenore. Here on earth she has no name anymore.

And the soft, sad sound of the purple curtains as they moved made me shake and filled me with strange fears I had never felt before. So, to calm the beating of my heart, I stood repeating, “It’s some visitor who wants to come in at my bedroom door. Some late visitor wants to come in at my bedroom door. That is all it is, and nothing more.”

Soon my soul grew stronger, and I waited no longer. “Sir,” I said, “or Madam, I am truly sorry. I was sleeping, and you knocked so gently, and you tapped so quietly at my bedroom door, that I was hardly sure I heard you.” Then I opened the door wide. Darkness there and nothing more.

I stood a long time, looking deep into that darkness, wondering and afraid. I had doubts and dreams stranger than anyone had dared to dream. But no one broke the silence, and nothing moved in the dark. The only word spoken there was a whispered word: “Lenore?” I whispered it, and an echo softly whispered the word back: “Lenore!” Only this and nothing more.

I turned back into the room, and my whole soul was burning inside me. Soon I heard a tapping again, a little louder than before. “Surely,” I said, “surely that is something at my window. Let me see what is there and find the answer to this mystery. Let my heart be calm for a moment while I find the answer. It’s the wind and nothing more.”

Then I threw the window open, and with a loud beating of wings a proud Raven stepped in, like a bird from holy times long ago. He did not bow; he did not stop or wait for a minute. Like a fine lord or lady, he flew up above my bedroom door. He sat on a statue of Pallas, the Greek goddess of wisdom, just above my door. He sat there, and nothing more.

Then this black bird made me smile in spite of my sadness, because its face looked so serious and proud. “The feathers on your head are cut short,” I said, “but you are surely not afraid. You dark, strange, ancient Raven, you have come here out of the Night. Tell me your noble name on the dark shore of Night, where the dead go!” Quoth the Raven, “Nevermore.”

I was amazed to hear this clumsy bird speak so clearly, though its answer had little meaning and did not really fit. For we must agree that no living person was ever lucky enough to see a bird above his bedroom door. No one has seen a bird or animal on a statue above his door with a name like “Nevermore.”

But the Raven sat alone on that quiet statue and spoke only that one word, as if his whole soul was in that one word. He said nothing more, and he did not move a feather, until I said very quietly, “Other friends have flown away before. Tomorrow he will leave me, as my hopes have flown away before.” Then the bird said, “Nevermore.”

I was surprised that his answer fitted my words so well. “No doubt,” I said, “this word is the only one it knows. It learned it from some unhappy master. Bad luck followed that man faster and faster, until all his songs had the same sad ending. The sad songs about his lost hope always ended with the same heavy words of ‘Never—nevermore.’”

But the Raven was still making my sad soul smile, so I pushed a soft chair in front of the bird, the statue, and the door. Then I sat down on the velvet and began to link one thought to the next. I wondered what this frightening old bird, this dark, clumsy, ugly, thin, and frightening old bird, meant when it cried out “Nevermore.”

I sat there and tried to guess, but I did not say a word to the bird. I could feel its burning eyes deep in my heart. I sat guessing this and more, with my head resting comfortably on the chair’s velvet, where the lamplight was shining. But on that purple velvet, where the lamplight shines, she will never rest her head again—ah, nevermore!

Then, I thought, the air grew thicker and smelled sweet, as if invisible angels were walking softly on the carpet. “You poor man,” I cried, “your God has sent these angels to bring you rest. He has sent you rest and a medicine to forget your memories of Lenore! Drink, oh drink this kind medicine and forget this lost Lenore!” Quoth the Raven, “Nevermore.”

“Prophet!” I said. “Evil thing that sees the future, bird or devil! Maybe the Devil sent you, or a storm threw you onto this shore. You are alone but not afraid in this strange, empty land, in this home full of horror. Tell me truly, I beg you: is there, is there any cure for my pain? Tell me, tell me, I beg you!” Quoth the Raven, “Nevermore.”

“Prophet!” I said. “Evil thing that sees the future, bird or devil! By the heaven above us and the God we both love, tell this soul so full of sorrow: in faraway Paradise, will it hold a holy young woman whom the angels call Lenore? Will it hold a rare and beautiful young woman whom the angels call Lenore?” Quoth the Raven, “Nevermore.”

“Let that word be our goodbye, bird or devil!” I screamed, jumping up. “Go back into the storm and to the dark shore of Night! Leave no black feather as a sign of the lie you have spoken! Leave me alone with my loneliness! Get off the statue above my door! Stop cutting into my heart with your beak, and go away from my door!” Quoth the Raven, “Nevermore.”

And the Raven never flies away. He is still sitting, still sitting on the pale statue of Pallas just above my bedroom door. And his eyes look like the eyes of a dreaming devil, and the lamplight falls on him and throws his shadow on the floor. And my soul, caught in that shadow lying on the floor, shall be lifted—nevermore!