Poem: The Raven

(a famous poem by Edgar Allan Poe)

The Raven

Edgar Allan Poe [1784-1849], first published January 29, 1845 in the Evening Mirror (New York), where Poe was an assistant editor

    Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore,
    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.
    For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels named 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;
    " '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,
    Darkness there, and nothing more.

    Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before
    Merely this and nothing more.

    Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before.
    Let me see then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore—
    'Tis the wind and nothing more!"

    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,
    Ghastly grim and ancient raven wandering from the nightly 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 above the sculptured bust above his chamber door,
    With such name as "Nevermore."

    On the morrow will he leave me, as my hopes have flown before."
    Then the bird said, "Nevermore."

    Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,
    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,
    Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking
    Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore—
    Meant in croaking "Nevermore."

    This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing
    She shall press, ah, nevermore!

    "Wretch," I cried, "thy God hath lent thee—by these angels he has 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."

    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."

    It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels named Lenore—
    Clasp a rare and radiant maiden, whom the angels named Lenore?"
    Quoth the raven, "Nevermore."

    "Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!" I shrieked upstarting—
    Quoth the raven, "Nevermore."

    On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;
    Shall be lifted—nevermore!

More poems are listed at this Poems: Index.