Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore,
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of some one genttle rapping, rapping 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,
An 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 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 visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door -
Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door; -
This it is and nothing more".
Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating there no longer
"Sir" said I "Or madame, 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 the door; -
Darkness there and nothing more.
Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,
Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dare 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 wispered, 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 mistery explore -
Let my heart be still a moment and this mistery explore -
"Tis the wind and nothing more"
Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,
Is there stepped a stately raven of the staintly 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 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 lordy name is on the Night's Plutonian shore!."
Quoth the raven "Nevermore!"
Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,
Though it's 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 of beast above 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 he did outpour.
Nothing further 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, "waht 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 dirgies 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 skining, I betook myself to linking
Fancy out fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore -
What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt and ominous bird of yore
Meant in croaking "Nervermore!"
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 recicling
On the cushion's velvet lining that the lamp-light gloated o'er
But whose velvet lining with the lamp-light gloating o'er
She shal press, Ah, Nevermore!
Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer
Swung by Seraphim whoose foot-falls tinkled on the tufled floor.
"Wretch" I cried, "thy God hath lent thee - by these angels he has sent thee
Respite - respite and nepenthe from my 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 of devil!
By the 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 named Lenore -
Clasp a rare and radiant maiden, whom the angels named Lenore?"
Quoth the raven, "Nevermore"
"Be that word our sing of parting bird or friend!" I shrieked upstarting -
"Get thee back into the temptest 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 trows his shadow on the floor;
And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor
Shall be lifted - nevermore!.
The Raven. Edgar Allan Poe
1845
