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 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 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.”