O blessed bird! the earth we pace
Again appears to be

An unsubstantial, fairy place
That is fit home for thee!

EDGAR ALLAN POE

XXXVI

THE RAVEN

EDGAR ALLAN POE

66

EDGAR ALLAN POE, born at Boston in 1809, died at Baltimore in 1849, was a writer of very musical poems and a remarkable series of short stories. Among his poems is the famous "Raven." Some of his best prose tales are "The Gold Bug," The Fall of the House of Usher," and "A Descent into the Maelstrom." His stories betray a keen intellectual insight. They have also the narrative merits of directness, vividness, and power of exciting suspense. In his last years he was a victim of insanity. In some respects his genius is the greatest in American literature.

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

Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December,

And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.

Eagerly I wish 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, 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."

Pallas: Minerva, goddess of wisdom.

Plutonian: Pluto was the god or king of Hades or the underworld.

Much I marveled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,

Though its answer little meaning-little relevancy

bore;

For we can not 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