NCE 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

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door.

"T is 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,

lost Lenore,

sorrow for the

For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name

Lenore,

VOL. XIII.

Nameless here forevermore.
7

J

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,

"T is some visitor, entreating entrance at my chamberdoor,

Some late visitor, entreating entrance at my chamberdoor;

That it is, and nothing more."

Presently my soul grew stronger: hesitating then no longer,

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"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!"

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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 win

dow 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 chamberdoor,

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 blest with seeing bird above his chamberdoor,

Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamberdoor,

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

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 bur

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 re

clining

On the cushion's velvet lining that the lamplight gloated

o'er:

But whose velvet violet lining, with the lamplight gloating o'er,

She shall press, - ah! nevermore!

Then methought the air grew denser, perfumed from an

unseen censer

Swung by seraphim whose footfalls tinkled on the tufted floor.