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Once upon a twilight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,
Over an unfathomable, vexing wealth of studied lore—
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.
"Not again," I muttered, "Cursed Raven at my chamber door—
Haunting me for evermore."
The abrasive, mad, uncertain rustling of each shredded curtain
Chilled me—filled me with fantastic terrors I'd once 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;—
Just a dove and nothing more.
Yet this dove strode in with agence, never slowing pace or cadence,
Mirroring uncannily the Raven I had met before;
Just a small obeisance made she; only once did stop or stay she;
And, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door—
Perched upon the same bust as the Raven had one year before—
Not just this, but something more.
It was here I halted, stared, for bird had opened its beak careful,
Hummed a wistful melody I could recall from days of yore;
It was then that I remembered; five years ere that first December,
'Fore my heart had been dismembered, notes sung by my lost Lenore—
Pretty, charming, lovely notes—now cruel—sung by my lost Lenore—
Then it ceased, and nothing more.
Grasping for support, I stumbled, vision blurring as I crumbled,
Overwhelmed by recollections, sinking down, I weakly swore;
But the Dove, ever so primly, simply sat, I noticed dimly,
Soothing me with song so queenly till my upright on the floor,
Till I was again upright and stable 'pon the tiled floor,
Quoth the Dove, "Forevermore."
"Prophet!" said I, "thing of beauty!—prophet still, if bird or cruelty!
By the Hell that rots below us, by the Hate we both abhor—
Tell this soul with sorrow laden, if within the distant Aidenn,
It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore—
Tell me, dove," I begged, "shall I again see my beloved Lenore?"
Quoth the dove, "Forevermore."
"By what means?" urged I, so desperate, eager for a final respite
From the years of separation, years of anguish I endured;
And her answer? Barely shifting, merely moved a claw, thus hinting
My attention to a glinting chalice I'd always ignored—
Chalice filled with substance that should make my mortal breath withdraw—
Quoth the Dove, "Forevermore."
As I drank from twisted chalice, where death swirled like borealis,
Choked did I from boundless agony I'd never felt before;
Every drop of poisoned liquid burning more than I'd predicted,
Loud I shrieked as soul of mine from body was so promptly tore—
Shrieked so loud in pain and joy from spirit via severed jaw—
Whilst my body kissed the floor.
"Take me," I requested, so the dove from windowsill down, floated,
Grasping me so softly with a single pristine, perfect claw;
'Scending up past cloud and nimbus, shooting past the famed Olympus,
Skimmed through Styx and 'Cheron Rivers, crossed the dark Plutonian shore—
And across the realm of Pluto made out I, face of Lenore;
And so I, in wondered disbelief, asked faithful Dove, "Lenore?"
Quoth mine Dove, "'Tis thine, Lenore."