Edgar Allan Poe 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.
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.
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?
"
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”;
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.
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."
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.
"
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 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!,
Desolate, yet all undaunted, on this desert
land enchanted,
Is there, is there balm in Gilead?, tell
me, tell me, I implore!"
"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,
Clasp a rare and radiant
maiden whom the angels name Lenore.
"
"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!
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!