Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered weak and weary, Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore.
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.
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 stepped 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, 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.”
"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 of my heart, and take thy form off my door! Quoth the Raven "Nevermore."
And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting on the pallid bust of Pallas 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!