Much I marveled this ungainly
  Fowl to hear discourse so plainly,
Though its answer little meaning—­
    Little relevancy bore;
  For we can not help agreeing
  That no living human being
  Ever yet was blest 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 fluttered,
  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 syllable 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 footfalls
    Tinkled on the tufted floor. 
  “Wretch,” I cried, “thy God hath lent thee—­
  By these angels he hath sent thee
  Respite—­respite and nepenthe [1]
    From thy memories of Lenore! 
Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe,
    And forget this lost Lenore!”
      Quoth the Raven, “Nevermore.”

[Transcriber’s Note 1:  nepenthe—­A drug to relieve grief, by blocking memory of sorrow or pain.]

  “Prophet!” said I, “thing of evil!—­
  Prophet still, if bird or 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.”