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 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 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 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 staid 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 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 bless’d 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 further 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—­never—­more!’”