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 door.
 `'Tis                            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 - sorrow for the lost Lenore -
 For                            the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels named 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 darkness 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 somewhat 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.'

 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 blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door -
 Bird                            or beast above the sculptured bust above his chamber door,
 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 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
 Followed                            fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore -
 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 reclining
 On                            the cushion's velvet lining that the lamp-light gloated o'er,
 But                            whose velvet violet lining with the lamp-light gloating o'er,
 She                            shall press, ah, nevermore!

 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 has 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.'

 `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 - tell me, I implore!'
 Quoth                            the raven, `Nevermore.'

 `Prophet!'                            said I, `thing of evil! - prophet still, if bird or devil!
 By                            that Heaven that bends above us - by that God we both adore -
 Tell                            this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn,
 It                            shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels named Lenore -
 Clasp                            a rare and radiant maiden, whom the angels named 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 my heart, and take thy form from off my door!'
 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!