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!