The
Raven
by Edgar Allan Poe
Scanned and proof-read by Levent
Kurnaz
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 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 soul 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 Project Gutenberg Etext
October, 1997 [Etext #1063]
