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 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 tried 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