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 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 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 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 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 mine 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 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 blest 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 the 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 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 fancy 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 lamplight gloated o'er,
            But whose velvet violet lining
            With the lamplight gloating o'er,
              She shall press, ah, nevermore!

            Then methought the air grew denser,
            Perfumed from an unseen censer
            Swung by Seraphim whose footfalls
            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 word our sign in 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 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 lamplight 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!






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