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!