Once upon a midnight dreary, while he pondered, weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore—
While he nodded, nearly napping, it was then, I came a tapping,
As of some one gently rapping, rapping at his chamber door.
“’Tis some visitor,” He 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 he wished the morrow;—vainly he had sought to borrow
From his books surcease of sorrow—sorrow for the lost Lenore—
For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore—
Nameless here for evermore.
His prayers I came to answer, black wings beating like a dancer,
To let him know about his love, the one he did adore.
I tap my beak gently on the door as to not startle him,
Bearing information I knew this news would shake his core
About this lost love whom he calls Lenore—
He will see her Nevermore
And the silken, sad, uncertain rustling of each purple curtain
Stilled him—filled him with horrors never felt before;
So that now, to the tempo of his heart, my wings were beating.
There he stood repeating, “’Tis some visitor seeking entrance at my door—
Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door;—
This it is and nothing more.”
Presently his soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,
“Sir,” said he, “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 he opened wide the door;—
Darkness there and nothing more.
Deep into that darkness peering, long he stood there wondering, fearing,
Trembling, resembling a meek mouse before a barn cat’s opened maw;
But the silence was unbroken, and my stillness gave no token,
And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, “Lenore?”
This he whispered, and my echo murmured back the word, “Lenore!”—
Merely this and nothing more.
Back into the chamber turning, all his soul within him burning,
Soon again I came a tapping, somewhat louder than before.
“Surely,” said he, “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 he flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,
In I flew, a stately Raven of the saintly days of yore;
Not the least obeisance made I; not a minute stopped or stayed I;
But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above his chamber door—
Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above his chamber door—
Perched, and sat, and nothing more.
It was then that I bewitched him, ensuring me his full attention,
By the regal, stern decorum of the countenance I wore,
“Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou,” he 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!”
There was nothing else to say, the reason I had come his way.
Though my answer little meaning to his question, little relevancy bore;
He marveled at me, 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.”
The man, I did confound, despite his books so nicely bound.I
spoke only that one word, the word, with which my soul I did outpour.
I looked upon the man and stood on stone, my eyes burning
Despite that being what I live for, bearing heartache I abhor
I looked upon him as he muttered how his hopes have flown before
All I said was: “Nevermore”
Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,
“Doubtless,” said he, “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
There I stood, still listening, hoping I could fix it, wishing—
Straight he wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird, and bust and door;
Then, upon the velvet sinking, he betook himself to thinking
Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore—
What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore
Meant in saying “Nevermore.”
This he sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing
To I, whose fiery eyes now burned into his soul and more;
This and more he sat divining, with his 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, he thought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer
Swung by Seraphim whose foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor.
“Wretch,” he 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!”
“Prophet!” said he, “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!”
“Prophet!” said he, “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.”
That! the question I came to answer, black wings beating like a dancer,
To let him know about his love, the one he did adore.
I must not let him deter me, no matter his reaction to me
I knew this news would shake his core
About this lost love whom he calls Lenore—
In this life, he will see her Nevermore
“Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!” he 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!”
And I never flitting, still am sitting, still am sitting
On the pallid bust of Pallas just above his chamber door;
And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon’s that is gleaming,
And the lamp-light o’er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;
And his soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor
Shall be lifted—nevermore!
