Ghastly grim and ancient Raven wandering from the Nightly shore—

“Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou,” I said, “art sure no craven,

By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore,

Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,

Perched, and sat, and nothing more.

Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door—

But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door—

Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he;

In there stepped a stately Raven of the saintly days of yore;

Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,

’Tis the wind and nothing more!”

Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore;—

Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore—

“Surely,” said I, “surely that is something at my window lattice;

Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before.

Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,

Merely this and nothing more.

This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, “Lenore!”—

And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, “Lenore?”

But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token,

Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before;

Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,

Darkness there and nothing more.

That I scarce was sure I heard you”—here I opened wide the door;—

And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door,

But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,

“Sir,” said I, “or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;

Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,

This it is and nothing more.”

Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door;—

“’Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door—

So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating

Thrilled me—filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;

And the silken, sad, uncertain rustling of each purple curtain

Nameless here for evermore.

For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore—

From my books surcease of sorrow—sorrow for the lost Lenore—

Eagerly I wished the morrow;—vainly I had sought to borrow

And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.

Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December;

Only this and nothing more.”

“’Tis some visitor,” I muttered, “tapping at my chamber door—

As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.

While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,

Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore—

Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,

Shall be lifted—nevermore!

And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor

And the lamp-light o’er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;

And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon’s that is dreaming,