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Ah, Destinctly I remember It was in the Bleak December; And each sperate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor. Eagerly I wished the morrow, vainly I sought to borrow from my books surcease of sorrow, sorrow for the lost lenore, from the rare and radient maiden whom the angels named lenore. Nameless here for evermore.
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.
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 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 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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