By
Edgar Allan Poe,
first published
1844, re-published in
1845
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 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 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."
"By 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 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!
This hypertext was
prepared by Abigail Martin.
Last updated
December 05, 2005.