The Raven

  "The Raven" by the American author Edgar Allen Poe was first published in January of 1845. It is often noted for it's stylized language, supernatural atmosphere and musicality.

THE RAVEN 

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 surcrease of sorrow - sorrow for the lost Lenore -

For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore -

Nameless here forever more.

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 st my chamber door -

 Some late visitor entreating entrance upon my chamber door, -

 Tis this 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 mortal ever dared to dream before;

 But the silence was unbroken, and darkness gave o 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 I heard again a tapping, somewhat louder than before.

 "Surely,' I 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 an instant stopped or stayed he

But, with mien of lord of Pallas just above my chamber door -

Perched, and set, 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 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 relevance bore;

Fore 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 a 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 further then he uttered - not a feather then he fluttered - 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 the 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 bird and bust and door;
Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself into 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 violet 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, an forget this lost Lenore!'
 Quoth the Raven, ' Nevermore.'


 'Prophet!' said I, ' things of evil - prophet still, if bird or devil!
 Whether Tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,
 Desolate yet undaunted, on this desert land enchanted-
 On this home by Horror haunted - tell me truly, I implore-
 Is there- is there a balm in Gilead?- tell me- tell me, I implore!'
 Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore.'



 By the Heaven that bend 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 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 the lie thy soul hath spoken!
 Leave 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 shadow on the floor;
And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor
Shall be lifted-nevermore!

Bust of Pallas