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THE RAVEN
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Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,
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Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore,
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While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
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As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.
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"'Tis some visiter," I muttered, "tapping at my chamber door --
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Only this, and nothing more."
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Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December,
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And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.
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Eagerly I wished the morrow; -- vainly I had sought to borrow
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From my books surcease of sorrow -- sorrow for the lost Lenore --
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For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore --
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Nameless here for evermore.
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And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtain
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Thrilled me -- filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;
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So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating
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"'Tis some visiter entreating entrance at my chamber door --
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Some late visiter entreating entrance at my chamber door; --
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This it is, and nothing more."
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Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,
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"Sir," said I, "or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;
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But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,
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And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door,
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That I scarce was sure I heard you " -- here I opened wide the door; ----
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Darkness there and nothing more.
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Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,
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Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before;
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But the silence was unbroken, and the darkness gave no token,
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And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, "Lenore!"
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This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, "Lenore!" --
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Merely this, and nothing more.
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Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,
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Soon I heard again a tapping somewhat louder than before.
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"Surely," said I, "surely that is something at my window lattice;
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Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore --
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Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore;--
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'Tis the wind and nothing more!"
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Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,
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In there stepped a stately raven of the saintly days of yore;
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Not the least obeisance made he; not an instant stopped or stayed he;
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But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door --
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Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door --
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Perched, and sat, and nothing more.
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Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,
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By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore,
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"Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou," I said, "art sure no craven,
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Ghastly grim and ancient raven wandering from the Nightly shore --
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Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night's Plutonian shore!"
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Quoth the raven "Nevermore."
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Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,
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Though its answer little meaning -- little relevancy bore;
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For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being
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Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door --
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Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door,
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With such name as "Nevermore."
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But the raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only
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That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.
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Nothing farther then he uttered -- not a feather then he fluttered --
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Till I scarcely more than muttered "Other friends have flown before --
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On the morrow _he_ will leave me, as my hopes have flown before."
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Then the bird said "Nevermore."
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Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,
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"Doubtless," said I, "what it utters is its only stock and store
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Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful Disaster
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Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore --
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Till the dirges of his Hope that melancholy burden bore
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Of "Never -- nevermore."
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But the raven still beguiling all my sad soul into smiling,
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Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird, and bust and door;
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Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking
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Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore --
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What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt and ominous bird of yore
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Meant in croaking "Nevermore."
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This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing
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To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom's core;
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This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining
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On the cushion's velvet lining that the lamplght gloated o'er,
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But whose velvet violet lining with the lamplight gloating o'er,
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_She_ shall press, ah, nevermore!
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Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer
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Swung by Angels whose faint foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor.
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"Wretch," I cried, "thy God hath lent thee -- by these angels he hath sent
thee
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Respite -- respite and nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore;
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Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe and forget this lost Lenore!"
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Quoth the raven, "Nevermore."
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"Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil! -- prophet still, if bird or devil! --
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Whether Tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,
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Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted --
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On this home by Horror haunted -- tell me truly, I implore --
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Is there -- _is_ there balm in Gilead? -- tell me -- tell me, I implore!"
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Quoth the raven, "Nevermore."
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"Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil -- prophet still, if bird or devil!
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By that Heaven that bends above us -- by that God we both adore --
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Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn,
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It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore --
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Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore."
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Quoth the raven, "Nevermore."
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"Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!" I shrieked, upstarting--
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"Get thee back into the tempest and the Night's Plutonian shore!
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Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!
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Leave my loneliness unbroken! -- quit the bust above my door!
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Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!"
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Quoth the raven, "Nevermore."
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And the raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
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On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;
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And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming,
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And the lamp-light o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;
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And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor
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Shall be lifted -- nevermore!
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~~~ End of Text ~~~
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Published 1845.
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