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Once upon a midnight dreary,
Over many a quaint and curious
While I nodded, nearly napping,
As of some one gently rapping,
“’Tis some visitor,” I muttered, “tapping at my chamber door—
Ah, distinctly I remember
And each separate dying ember
Eagerly I wished the morrow;—
From my books surcease of sorrow—
For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore—
And the silken, sad, uncertain
Thrilled me—filled me with
So that now, to still the beating
“’Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door— Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door;—
Presently my soul grew stronger;
“Sir,” said I, “or Madam,
But the fact is I was napping,
And so faintly you came tapping,
That I scarce was sure I heard you”—here I opened wide the door;—
Deep into that darkness peering,
Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal
But the silence was unbroken,
And the only word there spoken
This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, “Lenore!”—
Back into the chamber turning,
Soon again I heard a tapping
“Surely,” said I,
Let me see, then,
Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore;—
Open here I flung the shutter,
In there stepped a stately Raven
Not the least obeisance made he;
But, with mien of lord or lady,
Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door—
Then this ebony bird beguiling
By the grave and stern decorum
“Though thy crest be shorn and shaven,
Ghastly grim and ancient Raven
Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night’s Plutonian shore!”
Much I marvelled this ungainly
Though its answer little meaning—
For we cannot help agreeing
Ever yet was blessed with seeing
Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door,
But the Raven, sitting lonely
That one word, as if his soul
Nothing farther then he uttered—
Till I scarcely more than muttered
On the morrow he will leave me, as my Hopes have flown before.”
Startled at the stillness broken
“Doubtless,” said I,
Caught from some unhappy master
Followed fast and followed faster
Till the dirges of his Hope that melancholy burden bore
But the Raven still beguiling
Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat
Then, upon the velvet sinking,
Fancy unto fancy, thinking
What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore
This I sat engaged in guessing,
To the fowl whose fiery eyes
This and more I sat divining,
On the cushion’s velvet lining
But whose velvet-violet lining with the lamp-light gloating o’er,
Then, methought, the air grew denser,
Swung by Seraphim whose foot-falls
“Wretch,” I cried, “thy God hath lent thee—
Respite—respite and nepenthe
Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe and forget this lost Lenore!”
“Prophet!” said I, “thing of evil!—
Whether Tempter sent,
Desolate yet all undaunted,
On this home by Horror haunted—
Is there—is there balm in Gilead?—tell me—tell me, I implore!”
“Prophet!” said I, “thing of evil!—
By that Heaven that bends above us—
Tell this soul with sorrow laden
It shall clasp a sainted maiden
Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore.”
“Be that word our sign of parting,
“Get thee back into the tempest
Leave no black plume as a token
Leave my loneliness unbroken!—
Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!”
And the Raven, never flitting,
On the pallid bust of Pallas
And his eyes have all the seeming
And the lamp-light o’er him streaming
And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor
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