THE RAVEN
by Edgar Allan Poe

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 visiter," 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 visiter entreating entrance at my chamber door--
Some late visiter 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 tapping, 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 word, "Lenore!"--
Merely this and nothing more.

Back into the chamber turning, all my sour within me burning,
Soon again I heard a tapping something 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 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 the 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 lordly name is on the Night's Plutonian shore!"
Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."

Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,
Though 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--
Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust 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 its 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 wheeled 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--
What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and 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 my 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 God 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!--
Whether Tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,
Desolate, yet all undaunted, on this desert land 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 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 name Lenore--
Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore."
Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."

"Be that 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 has 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 throws his shadows on the floor;
And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor
Shall be lifted--nevermore!



The Raven's Story

by Peter Veale

Swaggerin' home in raven fashion, feelin' rather bold and dashin',
Thought I'd do some poet-bashin'; saw this light above a door -
A sign that E.A. Poe was porin' o'er some problem bleak and borin',
Like how to rhyme with Ulalume, or find a maiden named Lenore.
And when I heard the morbid nutter mutter, 'Oh my lost Lenore!'

I tapped my beak against his door.

Presently the joyless mortal opened up his gloomy portal,
Eyed me with misgiving and inquired what was my visit for.
I said I was a poor old raven, tuckered out and seekin' haven;
Could I rest awhile upon the bust of Pallas o'er his door?
'The bust? Well, if you must,' he answered, clearly shaken to the core,

'But what news have you of Lenore?'

'By Jeez,' I mused, 'by flamin' golly, this man is clearly off his trolley;
I'll play upon his melancholy as I perch above his door.'
I said: 'Dear Brother Poe, I'm sorry I cannot really ease your worry
Except for some reward which you might bring from your provision store.
A piece of steak would do me nicely - even offal if you're poor.

Oh, then I might remember more.'

'Corrupt and greedy bird!' he chided. 'Is my sorrow thus derided?
One who's lost a love, as I did, on the Night's Plutonian shore,
Regards your attitude as callous, so please quit the bust of Pallas,
Where you seem quite disposed to stay for half the dreary night or more;
Then pray be good enough to clean the raven-droppings from the floor

Before you're banished from my door.'

I stared him out and wouldn't waver. (Clean up the floor? Do me a favour!)
So finally I got to savour some small offerings from his store.
He fed me, but I kept on stallin'; told him I was past recallin'
Anything of his fair maiden, anything of lost Lenore.
I broke the wretched fellow's spirit with my croaks of 'Nevermore',

And I'm immortalized for sure.

--Peter Veale

The Modern Raven

by Epson Apple Poe

Once upon a midnight dreary, fingers cramped and vision bleary,
System manuals piled high and wasted paper on the floor,
Longing for the warmth of bedsheets,
Still I sat there, doing spreadsheets;

I took a floppy from the drawer.
Typing with a steady hand, I then invoked the SAVE command
But got instead a reprimand; it read,
"Abort, Retry, Ignore".

Was this some occult illusion?
Some maniacal intrusion?
These were choices Solomon himself
had never faced before.

Carefully, I weighted my options;
These three seemed to be the top ones.
Clearly, I must now adopt one--
Choose: "Abort, Retry, Ignore".

With my fingers pale and trembling,
Slowly toward the keyboard bending,
Longing for a happy ending,
hoping all would be restored.

Praying for some guarantee
Finally I pressed a key.
But on the screen what did I see?
Again: "Abort, Retry, Ignore".

I tried to catch the chips off-guard.
I pressed again, but twice as hard.
Luck was just not in the cards,
I saw what I had seen before.

Now I typed in desperation,
Trying random combinations.
Still there came the incantation
Choose: "Abort, Retry, Ignore".

There I sat, distraught, exhausted, by my own machine accosted;
Getting up, I turned away and paced across the office floor.
And then I saw an awful sight,
A bold and blinding flash of light,

A lightning bolt that cut the night and shook me to my very core.
The PC screen collapsed and died,
"Oh no ... my database!" I cried.
And from the dark a voice replied:
"You'll see your data ... nevermore."

To this day I do not know the place to which our data go.
Perhaps it goes to heaven where the angels have it stored.
But as for productivity ... Well,
I fear that it goes straight to hell.
And that's the tale I have to tell:
Your choice: "Abort, Retry, Ignore"


[<<] [Poem Page] [>>]
[Home]