The Raven

Once upon  a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,

WHILE I NODDED, NEARLY NAPPING, SUDDENLY THERE CAME A TAPPING

AS OF SOME ONE GENTLY RAPPING, RAPPING AT MY CHAMBER DOOR.

AH, DISTINCTLY I REMEMBER IT WAS IN THE BLEAK DECEMBER;

eagerly I wished the morrow;--vainly I had sought to borrow

for the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore--

and the silken, sad, uncertain rustling of each purple curtain

so that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating

some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door--

presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then longer,

but the fact is I was napping, and you so came rapping,

that I scarce was sure I herd you"-here I opened wide the door-

Deep into the darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing

but the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token

this I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, "Lenore!"--

back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,

"surely," said I, "surely that is something at my window lattice;

let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore ;-

open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,

not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he;

perched upon a bust of pallas just above my chamber door--

then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,

"though thy chrst be shorn and shaven, thou," said I, "art sure no craven,

tell me what thy lordly name is on the night's plutonian shore!"

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

for we cannot help agreeing that no living human being

bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door,

but the raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only

nothing farther than he uttered-- not a feather than he fluttered--

on the morrow he will leave me, as my hopes  have flown before.''

startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,

caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful disaster

till the dirges of his hope that melancholy burden bore

but the raven still beguiling all my fancy into smiling,

then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking

what this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore

this I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing

this more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining

but whose velvet-violate lining with the lamp-light gloating o'er

then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer

"WRETCH," I CRIED, "THY GOD HATH LENT THEE-- BY THESE ANGLELS HE HATH SENT THEE

QUAFF, OH THIS KIND NEPENTHE AND FORGOT THIS LOST LENORE!"

quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe and forgot this lost Lenore!"

"prophet!" said I, "thing of evil!"-- prophet still, if bird or devil!"--

desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted--

is there--is there balm in gilead?--tell me--tell me, I implore!"

"prophet!" said I, "a thing of evil!-- PROPHET STILL, IF BIRD OR DEVIL!

TELL THIS SOUL WITH SORROW LADEN IF,WITHIN THE DISTANT AIDENN,

CLASP A RARE AND RAIDANT MAIDEN WHOM THE ANGELS NAMED LENORE."

"BE THAT WORD OUR SIGN OF PARTING, BIRD OR FIEND!" I SHRIEKED, UPSTARTING--

LEAVE NO BLACK PUME AS A TOKEN OF THAT LIE THY SOUL HATH SPOKEN!

take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!"

and the raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting

and his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming,

and my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor

credits

• Sides:Arianna Maldonado
• Narrator: Allison Martin
• Music:
• www.poetryfoundation.org/poem/178713

thank you!