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,

On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;

And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting

Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”

Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!”

Leave my loneliness unbroken!—quit the bust above my door!

Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!

“Get thee back into the tempest and the Night’s Plutonian shore!

“Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!” I shrieked, upstarting—

Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”

Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore.”

It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore—

Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn,

By that Heaven that bends above us—by that God we both adore—

“Prophet!” said I, “thing of evil!—prophet still, if bird or devil!

Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”

Is there—is there balm in Gilead?—tell me—tell me, I implore!”