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 name 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 name Lenore -
  Clasp a rare and radiant maiden, whom the angels name 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!