By Edgar Allan Poe
|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 the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtain
Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,
Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, feari
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 an instant stopped or stayed he; But, with mien of lord and 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,
Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl
to hear discourse so plainly,
But the Raven, sitting lonely on
that placid bust, spoke only
Startled at the stillness broken by
reply so aptly spoken,
But the Raven still beguiling all
my sad soul into smiling,
This I sat engaged in guessing, but
no syllable expressing
Then, methought, the air grew
denser, perfumed from an unseen censer,
"Prophet!" said I, "thing of
evil!—prophet still, if bird or devil!—
"Prophet!" said I, "thing of
evil!—prophet still, if bird or devil!
"Be that word our sign of
parting, bird or fiend!" I shrieked, upstarting—
And the Raven, never flitting,
still is sitting—still is sitting
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