| 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 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 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 blest 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 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 fancy 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 lamplight gloated o'er, |
| But whose velvet violet lining with the lamplight gloating o'er, |
| She shall press, ah, nevermore! |
| Then methought the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer |
| Swung by Seraphim whose footfalls 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- |
| Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore." |
| Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore." |
| "Be that word our sign in 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 lamplight 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! |
Note: This is one of my favorite poems. It's author is Edgar Allen Poe
and it was written by him in 1844 in New York where he lived. I place
it here to share it with you.
- Kraig J. Rice.
I have many Christian poems to share with you
