by the melancholy character of the word itself, by its frequent repetition, and by a consideration of the ominous reputation of the fowl that uttered it, is at length excited to superstition, and wildly propounds queries of a far different character—­queries whose solution he has passionately at heart—­propounds them half in superstition and half in that species of despair which delights in self-torture—­propounds them not altogether because he believes in the prophetic or demoniac character of the bird (which reason assures him is merely repeating a lesson learned by rote), but because he experiences a frenzied pleasure in so modelling his questions as to receive from the expected “Nevermore” the most delicious because the most intolerable of sorrow.  Perceiving the opportunity thus afforded me, or, more strictly, thus forced upon me in the progress of the construction, I first established in mind the climax or concluding query—­that query to which “Nevermore” should be in the last place an answer—­that query in reply to which this word “Nevermore” should involve the utmost conceivable amount of sorrow and despair.

Here then the poem may be said to have its beginning, at the end where all works of art should begin; for it was here at this point of my preconsiderations that I first put pen to paper in the composition of the stanza: 

  “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.”

I composed this stanza, at this point, first that, by establishing the climax, I might the better vary and graduate, as regards seriousness, and importance the preceding queries of the lover, and secondly, that I might definitely settle the rhythm, the metre, and the length and general arrangement of the stanza, as well as graduate the stanzas which were to precede, so that none of them might surpass this in rhythmical effect.  Had I been able in the subsequent composition to construct more vigorous stanzas, I should without scruple have purposely enfeebled them so as not to interfere with the climacteric effect.

And here I may as well say a few words of the versification.  My first object (as usual) was originality.  The extent to which this has been neglected in versification is one of the most unaccountable things in the world.  Admitting that there is little possibility of variety in mere rhythm, it is still clear that the possible varieties of metre and stanza are absolutely infinite; and yet, for centuries, no man, in verse has ever done, or ever seemed to think of doing, an original thing.  The fact is that originality (unless in minds of very unusual force) is by no means a matter, as some suppose, of impulse or intuition.  In general, to be found, it must be elaborately sought and, although a positive merit of the highest class, demands in its attainment less of invention than negation.