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!