The Raven
Edgar Allan Poe
1809 to 1849
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 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 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 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 farther 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 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 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 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!
Edgar Allan Poe's The Raven
Edgar Allan Poe's "The Raven" is a masterpiece of Gothic literature that explores themes of loss, grief, and the descent into madness. Through its haunting narrative and meticulous construction, the poem creates a mesmerizing atmosphere that draws readers into the protagonist's psychological turmoil.
The poem's structure is intricate and deliberate, employing a complex rhyme scheme and meter that contribute to its hypnotic quality. Poe utilizes trochaic octameter, a rarely used meter that creates a sing-song rhythm, enhancing the poem's musicality and its sense of impending doom. The repetition of sounds, particularly the long 'o' in words like "Lenore" and "nevermore," further reinforces the poem's mournful tone and the narrator's obsession with his lost love.
The narrative unfolds in a single setting - the narrator's chamber - during a bleak December night. This claustrophobic environment serves as a metaphor for the narrator's mind, trapped in a cycle of grief and unable to escape his memories. The poem's progression from evening to midnight mirrors the narrator's descent from melancholy into despair, with each stanza drawing him deeper into his psychological abyss.
Poe's use of symbolism is rich and multifaceted. The raven itself is the central symbol, representing the narrator's grief and his inability to forget his lost Lenore. Its repeated utterance of "Nevermore" serves as both a reminder of the narrator's loss and a harbinger of his eternal suffering. The bust of Pallas, upon which the raven perches, symbolizes wisdom and rationality, juxtaposed against the irrationality of the narrator's emotional state and the supernatural presence of the bird.
The poem's exploration of the thin line between reality and imagination is a hallmark of Poe's style. The narrator's unreliability becomes increasingly apparent as the poem progresses, leaving readers to question whether the raven is a real visitor or a figment of the narrator's troubled mind. This ambiguity adds depth to the poem, allowing for multiple interpretations and inviting readers to explore the nature of grief and madness.
The theme of loss is central to "The Raven," with the narrator's grief for Lenore serving as the catalyst for the entire narrative. Poe delves into the psychology of mourning, depicting a man unable to accept the finality of death and desperately seeking answers or comfort. The raven's repeated "Nevermore" crushes any hope of reunion or solace, driving the narrator further into despair.
Poe's mastery of atmosphere is evident throughout the poem. The "bleak December" night, the dying embers in the fireplace, and the "silken, sad, uncertain rustling of each purple curtain" all contribute to a sense of foreboding and melancholy. This atmosphere is not merely descriptive but actively participates in the narrative, reflecting and intensifying the narrator's emotional state.
The poem also explores the concept of the self-fulfilling prophecy. The narrator's persistent questioning of the raven, despite knowing it can only respond with one word, reveals his masochistic tendency to reinforce his own sorrow. Each "Nevermore" confirms his worst fears and deepens his anguish, suggesting that his inability to let go of his grief is self-imposed.
In conclusion, "The Raven" stands as a testament to Poe's poetic genius, seamlessly blending form and content to create a work of enduring power. Through its intricate structure, rich symbolism, and profound exploration of human psychology, the poem captures the universal experience of loss and the potentially destructive nature of unyielding grief. Poe's ability to evoke a visceral emotional response while maintaining technical brilliance ensures that "The Raven" remains a cornerstone of American literature, continuing to captivate and haunt readers more than a century and a half after its publication.