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 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 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 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 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 taping, 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 stillness gave no token,
And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, "Lenore!"
This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the work, "Lenore!"—
Merely this and nothing more.
Back into the chamber turning,
all my soul within me burning,
Soon again I heard the tapping something louder than before.
"Surely," said I, "surely that is something at my window lattice;
Let me see, then, what there 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 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
not 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 a marvelled this ungainly
fowl to hear discourse so plainly,
Thought 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,
With such name as "Nevermore."
But 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 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 wheeling 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—
Meant in croaking "Nevermore."
This I sat engaged in guessing,
but no syllable expressing
To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into by bosom’s core;
This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining
On the cushion’s velvet lining that the lamp-light gloated o’er,
But whose velvet violet lining with the lamp-light gloating o’er
She shall press, ah, nevermore!
Then, methought, the air
grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer
Swung by Seraphim whose foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor
"Wretch," I cried, "thy Good 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! –
By that heaven that bends above u 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 thy beak from my hear, 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!