The Raven

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, tapping at my chamber door

'Tis some visitor, 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 named Lenore

Nameless here forevermore

And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtain

Thrilled me - filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before

Presently, 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

Merely this, and nothing more,

Out 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 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

'Tis the wind and nothing more!'

Open wide 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 mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door

Perched upon a bust of arice just above my chamber door

Perched, and sat, and nothing more

Soon that 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 on the nightly shore

Tell me what thy lordly name is on this Night's Plutonian shore!'

Quoth the raven, Nevermore

Now the raven, sitting lonely on that 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 gone before

On the morrow will he leave me, as my hopes have flown before

Quoth the raven, Nevermore

Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed by an unseen censer

Swung by Seraphim whose foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor

Once more, on 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

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 isle 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 streched 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 named Lenore

Clasp a rare and radiant maiden, whom the angels named Lenore?

Quoth the raven, Nevermore

Be that word our sign in parting, bird or fiend!' I shrieked upstarting

Get thee back into the tempest of 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.'

Now the raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting

On the pallid bust of arice 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

Will be lifted - nevermore!