The Raven

Once upon a midnight dreary, as I pondered, weak and weary, Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore— While I nodded, napping suddenly, there came a tapping gently, rapping, “A 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 dying, glowing ember cast 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 radiant girl whom the angels named Lenore— Nameless here forevermore.

And the silken, sad, uncertain rustling of the 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, “Sir or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore; But the fact is I was napping, and so gently came your rapping, And so faint the tapping, 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.