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 some one 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 mortals 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 something 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 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 upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door, / With such name as “Nevermore.”
But the Raven, sitting lonely on that 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 sad soul 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, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer / Swung by seraphim whose foot-falls 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 of 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!
behind the screams