The Raven. Edgar All Poe

The Raven

BY EDGAR ALLAN POE (A different version of Poe, by Me).

Oh my tortured soul, can this midnight be more dreary, why do I keep on pondering so. I feel so weak and bloody weary. Why does such quaint and curious verses of a poem from long ago, come nagging at my forlorn, hapless and besotted brain.

While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping, as of someone gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.

“Who the hell is it” I thundered, “could be tapping at my chamber door—this late in the blasted dark of night. Oh, if only they would go away.”

Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December; and each separate dying ember within the fire wrought its ghost upon the floor. Eagerly I wished for tomorrow, vainly I had sought to borrow sweet sleep's deathly quiet and pure peace—Please let me soon forget, my sorrow for the lost Lenore—

For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels named Lenore— Is now dead to me for evermore. And the silken, sad, uncertain rustling of each purple curtain, terrified me—filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before; so that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating:

“Get the hell away from my chamber door—Tis too late to be entreating entrance at this midnight hour. Go away, and leave me be.”

Presently my soul grew stronger. Hesitating then no longer, I deigned to offer an apology for my ill manners.

“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 I stood peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing, doubting, whether or not I was going mad, and never was there an actual knocking. 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!”— Still the silence, it endured. Back into the chamber I returned, all my soul within me burning. Then again came the infernal tapping, somewhat louder than before.

“Surely,” said I to myself, “surely there is some ghost that comes here to be haunting my addled soul. Let me see, then, what mystery there is to explore—Let my heart be still a moment and this ghostly mystery to explore;— It must be the wind and nothing more"!

Here I flung the shutter open. When suddenly, with many a flirt and flutter, in stepped a stately Raven of the saintly days of yore. Such a beastly disrespectful creature; not a word of greeting said 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 black as night, bold and audacious ebony bird beguiled my sad remembering by making me smile, such a grave and stern look upon it's tiny countenance.

This Raven was surely not lacking in courage. Ghastly, grim and ancient, it is now wandering from the Nightly shore—

"Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night’s Plutonian shore!”

Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”

Much I asked this ungainly fowl to speak more plainly, but its answer bore little meaning—little relevancy , 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 farther then he uttered—not a feather then he fluttered— Till I scarcely more than muttered:

“Other friends have flown her before— But tomorrow, you will leave me, as my Hopes have flown before.”

Then the bird said “Nevermore.”

Startling the stillness broken only by such a reply so aptly spoken.

“Doubtless,” said I, “what it utters is the only word it knows.

Caught from some unhappy master who unmercifully must have mistreated him. Till all the poor creature must ever say, till with hope the melancholy of his burden wears away, and hope returns

Of ‘Never—nevermore".

Now the Raven still beguiling all my fancy into smiling, I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of that bird, and bust and door. Then, upon the velvet seating, I betook myself to linking fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore—What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous stature, tells me what is meant:

In croaking “Nevermore.”

Thus 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 censor 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 drugged nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore;

Drink, oh drink this kind potion of nepenthe and forget this lost Lenore!”

Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”

“Prophet!” said I, “thing of evil!—prophet still, if thou be bird or devil!—Whether Tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee hereupon my 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 mountain 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, 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!

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The Raven (The original version)

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 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 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 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 the placid bust, spoke only

That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.

Nothing farther 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, 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!

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