The Raven

Once upon a dreary midnight, while I pondered, weak and weary, Over many a strange and curious volume of forgotten lore— While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping, As of someone gently rapping, rapping at my bedroom door. “It’s some visitor,” I muttered, “tapping at my bedroom door— Only this and nothing more.”

Ah, I clearly can remember it was in the bleak December, And each separate dying ember cast its ghost upon the floor. Eagerly I wished for morning; I had tried in vain to borrow From my books an end to sorrow—sorrow for the lost Lenore— For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels call Lenore— Nameless here forevermore.

And the silken, sad, uncertain rustling of each purple curtain Thrilled me—filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before; So that now, to calm the beating of my heart, I stood repeating, “It’s some visitor who’s asking to come in at my bedroom door— Some late visitor who’s asking to come in at my bedroom door; That is all and nothing more.”

Soon my soul grew somewhat stronger; hesitating then no longer, “Sir,” I said, “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 bedroom door, That I hardly 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 room returning, all my soul within me burning, Soon again I heard a tapping, somewhat louder than before. “Surely,” I said, “surely that is something at my window lattice; Let me see, then, what is there, and this mystery explore— Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore— It’s the wind and nothing more.”

Then I flung the shutter open, and, with many a flirt and flutter, In there stepped a stately Raven from the saintly days of yore. Not the slightest bow he made me; not a moment stopped or stayed he, But, with the air of lord or lady, perched above my bedroom door— Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my bedroom door— Perched, and sat, and nothing more.

Then this ebony bird, beguiling my sad fancy into smiling With the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore— “Though your crest is shorn and shaven, you,” I said, “are surely no coward, Ghastly, grim, and ancient Raven, wandering from the shore of Night— Tell me what your lordly name is on the Night’s Plutonian shore!” Said the Raven, “Nevermore.”

I was much amazed to hear this clumsy bird speak out so plainly, Though its answer little meaning—little relevance it bore; For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being Ever yet was blessed with seeing a bird above his bedroom door— Bird or beast upon the sculpted bust above his bedroom door— With a name like “Nevermore.”

But the Raven, sitting lonely on that peaceful bust, spoke only That one word, as if his soul in that one word he meant to pour. Nothing further then he uttered; not a feather then he fluttered— Till I scarcely more than muttered, “Other friends have flown before— In the morning he will leave me, as my Hopes have flown before.” Then the bird said, “Nevermore.”

Startled at the stillness broken by reply so fitly spoken, “Doubtless,” I said, “what it utters is its only stock and store, Learned from some unhappy master whom a merciless Disaster Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore— Till the funeral songs 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, into the velvet sinking, I set myself to linking Fancy on to fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore— What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore— Meant by croaking “Nevermore.”

This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing To the bird 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 over, But whose velvet violet lining, with the lamplight gloating over, She shall press, ah, nevermore!

Then, I thought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer Swung by Seraphim whose footsteps tinkled on the tufted floor. “Wretch,” I cried, “your God has lent you—by these angels he has sent you Rest—relief and sweet forgetting from your memories of Lenore! Drink, oh drink this kind forgetting, and forget this lost Lenore!” Said the Raven, “Nevermore.”

“Prophet!” I said, “thing of evil!—prophet still, if bird or devil!— Whether the Tempter sent you, or the tempest tossed you 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!” Said the Raven, “Nevermore.”

“Prophet!” I said, “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 Eden, It shall hold a sainted maiden whom the angels call Lenore— Hold a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels call Lenore.” Said the Raven, “Nevermore.”

“Let that word be our sign of parting, bird or fiend!” I shrieked, upstarting— “Get back into the tempest and the Night’s Plutonian shore! Leave no black plume as a token of that lie your soul has spoken! Leave my loneliness unbroken!—quit the bust above my door! Take your beak from out my heart, and take your form from off my door!” Said the Raven, “Nevermore.”

And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my bedroom door; And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon’s that is dreaming, And the lamplight over 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!