The Raven
by: Edgar Allan Poe
Copyright has expired -- text taken from the web. License
for the Reading, by Nahum Wengrov: CC-BY-SA

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 sour 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!