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 someone 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 surrow, sorrow for the lost
Lenore,.
For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name
Lenore,
Nameless here forevermore.
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 is it, 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 the 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, 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 cham- ber
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 the lordly name is on the Night's Pluton- ian
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 cham ber door,
Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his cham ber
door,
With such name as "Nevermore."
But the raven, sitting lonely on that 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."
Thus 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 re- clining
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, O 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 im
plore!"
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 lamplight o'er him streaming throws the shadow on
the floor;
And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the
floor
Shall be lifted---nevermore!

Hear the sledges with the bells-Silver Bells!
What a world of merriment their melody foretells!
How they tinkle, tinkle, tinkle,
In the icy air of night!
While the stars that oversprinkle
All the heavens seem to twinkle
With a crystaline delight;
Keeping time, time, time,
In a sort of Runic rhyme
To the tintinnabulation that so musically wells
From the bells, bells, bells, bells, bells, bells, bells-
From the jingling and the tinkling of the bells
Hear the mellow wedding bells,
Golden bells!
What a world of happiness their harmony foretells!
Through the balmy air of night
How they ring out their delight!-
From the molten golden notes,
And all in tune,
What a liquid ditty floats
To the turtle dove that listens, while she gloats,
On the moon!
Oh, from the sounding cells,
What a gush of euphony voluminously wells!
How it swells,
How it dwells
On the Future; how it tells
Of the rapture that impels
To the swining and the ringing
Of the bells, bells, bells,
Of the bells, bells, bells, bells, bells, bells, bells-
To the rhyming and the chiming of the bells!
Hear the loud alarum bells-
Brazen bells!
What a tale of terror now their turbulency tells;
In the startled air of night
How they scream out their affright!
Too much horrified to speak,
They can only shriek, shriek,
Out of tune,
In a clamorous appealing to the mercy of the fire,
In the mad expostulationwith the deaf and frantic fire.
Leaping, higher, higher, higher,
With a desperate desire,
And a resolute endeavor
Now-now to sit or never,
By the side of the pale-faced moon.
Oh, the bells, bells, bells!
What a tale of terror tells
Of despair!
How they clang and crash and roar!
What a horror they outpour
On the bosom of the palpitating air!
Yet the ear it fully knows,
By the twanging,
And the clanging,
How the danger ebbs and flows;
Yet the ear destinctly tells,
In the jangling,
And the wrangling,
How the danger sinks and swells,
By the sinking or the swelling in the anger of the bells-
Of the bells-
Of the bells, bells, bells, bells, bells, bells, bells-
In the clamor and the clangor of the bells!
Hear the tolling of the bells-
Iron bells!
What a world of solemn thought their monody compels!
In the silence of the night,
How we shiver with affright
At the melancholy menace of their tone;
For every sound that floats
From the rust within their throats, Is a groan.
And the people-ah, the people-
They that dwell up in the steeple,
All alone,
And who tolling, tolling, tolling,
In that muffled monotone,
Feel the glory in hte rolling
On the human heart of stone-
They are neither man nor woman-
They are neither brute nor human,
They are Ghouls:
And their kind it is who tolls;
And he rolls, rolls, rolls,
Rolls
A paean from the bells!
And his merry bosom swells
With the paean from the bells!
And he dances and he yells;
Keeping time, time, time,
In a sort of Runic rhyme,
To the throbbing of the bells-
Of the bells, bells, bells-
To the sobbing of the bells:
Keeping time, time, time,
As he knells, knells, knells,
In a happy Runic rhyme,
To the rolling of the bells-
Of the bells, bells, bells-