Originally published in 1845
This version published in: Richmond Semi – Weekly
Examiner,
dated: September 25, 1849.
The Raven, illustrated by John Tenniel (1858)
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 someone gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.
"'Tis some visitor," 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 visitor entreating entrance at my chamber
door –
Some late visitor 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 mortal 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 somewhat 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 this 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 marveled 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 the placid bust, spoke
only,
That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did
outpour.
Nothing further 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 fancy 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 me thought the air grew denser, perfumed from an
unseen censer,
Swung by Seraphim whose footfalls 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 word our sign in 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 hath
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 shadow
on the floor;
And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on
the floor,
Shall be lifted – nevermore!
The Raven, by Gustave Dore (1883)
In memory of Edgar Allan Poe.
January 19, 1809 – October 7, 1849.