To his dwelling.

Come, Months, come away;
Put on white, black, and grey;
Let your light sisters play;
Ye, follow the bier

Of the dead cold year,

And make her grave green with tear on tear.

P. B. Shelley

XCVII

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 visitor,' I mutter'd, '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 wish'd the morrow ;-vainly had I sought

From

to borrow

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

Thrill'd 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 open'd 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 whisper'd word 'Lenore !'

This I whisper'd, and an echo murmur'd back the word 'Lenore'

Merely this, and nothing more.

Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within

me burning,

Soon I heard again 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 a shutter, when with many a flirt and flutter

In there stepp'd a stately raven of the saintly days of yore;

Not the least obeisance made he; not an instant stopp'd or stay'd he;

But with mien of lord or lady, perch'd above my chamber door

Perch'd upon a bust of Pallas, just above my chamber door

Perch'd 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 marvell'd 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 sculptur'd bust above his chamber door,

With such a 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 farther then he utter'd-not a feather then he flutter'd

Till I scarcely more than mutter'd, '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

Follow'd fast and follow'd 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 wheel'd a cushion'd seat in front of bird, and bust, and door ;

Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to

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 burnt 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 !

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 sainteď maiden whom the angels name Lenore

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