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, tapping 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 forevermore

And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtain
Thrilled me - filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before
Presently, 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
Merely this, and nothing more,

Out 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 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 wide 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 arice just above my chamber door
Perched, and sat, and nothing more

Soon that 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 on the nightly shore
Tell me what thy lordly name is on this Night's Plutonian shore!'
Quoth the raven, Nevermore

Now 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 gone before
On the morrow will he leave me, as my hopes have flown before
Quoth the raven, Nevermore

Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed by an unseen censer
Swung by Seraphim whose foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor
Once more, on 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

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 isle 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 streched 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 in parting, bird or fiend!' I shrieked upstarting
Get thee back into the tempest of 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.'

Now the raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
On the pallid bust of arice 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
Will be lifted - nevermore!