The Raven Edgar Allan Poe

The Raven

Edgar Allan Poe

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 book 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 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 a3 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 that 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 fluttered28;

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 sad soul 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 syllabe 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 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 foot-falls tinkled  on the tufted  floor.

"Wretch", I cried, "thy41 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 of 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 of 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 hath33 spoken!

Leave my loneliness unbroken! quit the bust above my door!

Take thy41 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 his shadow on the floor;

And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor

                Shall be lifted - nevermore!

By Edgar Allan Poe

***

Good Reading,

Casa de Livro 

Sidney Matias

Biography of Edgar Allan Poe

Born in Boston - USA, in 1809, the son of theater actors. He was orphaned at an early age. It was created by a merchant, John Allan, in the southern state of Virginia. As a child he lived in the UK for a period of 5 years. During a troubled youth, having been removed from the University of Virginia by his tutor due to gambling debts, and expelled from the military academy, he published his first works in Boston Tamerlane and Other Poems (1827), Baltimore Al Araaf (1829), and New York Poems (1831). Back in Virginia he had a short career as an editor and journalist, having been fired for alcoholism. He continued throughout his life moving between cities, without settling down, but always gaining recognition as a poet, writer and critic. With the publication of The Raven (1845), he gained immediate fame throughout the country. Other poetic works are The Sleeper (1831), Lenore (1831), and Annabel Lee (1849). Among short stories and short stories, the following stand out: Manuscript found in a bottle (1832), The fall of Usher's house (1839) the murders in the Rue Morgue (1841), The mystery of Marie Rogêt (1842-1843), The well and the pendulum (1842), The Golden Scarab (1843), The Amontillado Barrel (1846) and The Stolen Letter (1844). He died in Baltimore in 1849. Poe knew better than anyone else the ins and outs, desires and fears, of the human soul. Perhaps for this reason his influence reached such a wide range of writers and poets. The Raven is probably the singular “poem”, among all poems ever written in the English language, from Beowulf, passing through Shakespeare, until today, which has provoked the most poetic responses in the last two centuries, among which are the translations of Machado de Assis and Fernando Pessoa. It is widely accepted that Poe is the creator of thrillers and police stories. Some more fervent argue that he is also the father of science fiction, the new American literary criticism, and Symbolist poetry. Undeniable is his position as one of the greatest poets, writers and critics the US has ever had.