The Raven by Edgar Allan Poe

The Raven

by Edgar Allan Poe

THE RAVEN

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 visiter," 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 visiter

entreating entrance at my chamber door--

Some late visiter 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 mortals ever dared to dream before;

But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness 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 sour within me burning, Soon again I heard a

tapping something 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.

La Mansión del Inglés - http://www.mansioningles.com

Then the 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 upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door,

With such name as "Nevermore."

But the Raven, sitting lonely on that placid bust, spoke only That one word, as if its soul

in that one word he did outpour Nothing farther 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 hath 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--

La Mansión del Inglés - http://www.mansioningles.com

Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore."

Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."

"Be that 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 has 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 shadows on the floor;

And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor

Shall be lifted--nevermore!

The Masque of the Red Death

The "Red Death" had long devastated the country. No pestilence had ever been so fatal,

or so hideous. Blood was its Avatar and its seal--the redness and the horror of blood.

There were sharp pains, and sudden dizziness, and then profuse bleeding at the pores,

with dissolution. The scarlet stains upon the body and especially upon the face of the

victim, were the pest ban which shut him out from the aid and from the sympathy of his

fellow-men. And the whole seizure, progress and termination of the disease, were the

incidents of half an hour.

But the Prince Prospero was happy and dauntless and sagacious. When his dominions

were half depopulated, he summoned to his presence a thousand hale and light-hearted

friends from among the knights and dames of his court, and with these retired to the

deep seclusion of one of his castellated abbeys. This was an extensive and magnificent

structure, the creation of the prince's own eccentric yet august taste. A strong and lofty

wall girdled it in. This wall had gates of iron. The courtiers, having entered, brought

furnaces and massy hammers and welded the bolts. They resolved to leave means

neither of ingress nor egress to the sudden impulses of despair or of frenzy from within.

The abbey was amply provisioned. With such precautions the courtiers might bid

defiance to contagion. The external world could take care of itself. In the meantime it

was folly to grieve, or to think. The prince had provided all the appliances of pleasure.

There were buffoons, there were improvisatori, there were ballet-dancers, there were

musicians, there was Beauty, there was wine. All these and security were within.

Without was the "Red Death".

It was towards the close of the fifth or sixth month of his seclusion, and while the

pestilence raged most furiously abroad, that the Prince Prospero entertained his

thousand friends at a masked ball of the most unusual magnificence.

It was a voluptuous scene, that masquerade. But first let

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