Chapter 11
CHAPTER XI. CREEPY TALES by Edgar Allan Poe. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information, or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Piotr Natter.
CREEPY TALES by Edgar Allan Poe. THE RAVEN Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary, over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore. While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping, as of some one gently rapping,
rapping at my chamber door. "'Tis some 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 separate dying amber wrought its ghost upon the floor. Eagerly, I wished a morrow. Vainly I had sought to borrow from my books their seas of sorrow. Sorrow for the lost Lenore. For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels named Lenore.
Nameless here. Forevermore. And the silken, sad, uncertain rustling of each purpled curtain thrilled me, filled me with fantastic terrors never filled 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 mortal ever dared to dream before. But the silence was unbroken, and the darkness 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 that chamber turning, all my soul within me burning, soon I heard again a tapping, somewhat louder than before. Surely, said I, surely that is something in my window, Lattice. Let me see, then, what there it 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 their stept the stately raven of the saintly days of yore. Not the least of patience made he, not an instant stopped or stayed he, but, with mean of lord
or lady, perched above my chamber door. Perched upon a bust of palace 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 marveled, this ungainly foul, to hear this course so plainly, though its answer little meaning, little relevancy bore. For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door, bird or beast upon the sculpted bust above his chamber door, with such name as, nevermore.
But the raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only that one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour. Nothing further than he uttered, not a feather than 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 won't 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 said, engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing to the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom's core. This and more, I said, 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, nevermore. Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer swung by angels whose faint 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 from thy memories of Lenore.
Quaff, oh, quaff this kind nepenthe, and forget this lost Lenore. Quoth the raven, nevermore. Prophet, said I, think of evil. Prophet still, if bird or devil, whether tempest sent or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore, desolate yet all and daunted, 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. Prophet, said I, think of evil.
Prophet still, if bird or devil, by that heaven that bends above us, by that god we both adore, Tell this soul with sorrow laden, If, within the distant Aden, it shall clasp a sainted maiden, Whom the angels name Lenore,
Clasp a rare and radiant maiden, Whom the angels name Lenore. Quoth the raven, nevermore. Be that word our sign of parting bird or fiend, I shrieked upstarting,
Get thee back into the tempest and the nice Plutonian shore. Leave no black plume as a token of that lie that soul hath spoken. Leave my loneliness unbroken. Quit the bust up of my door, Take thy beak from out my heart,
And take thy form from off my door. Quoth the raven, nevermore. And the raven, never flitting, Still is sitting, Still is sitting on the pallid bust of Pallas
Just above my chamber door, And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's That is dreaming, And the lamplight o'er him streaming Throws his shadow on the floor,
And my soul, from out that shadow That lies floating on the floor, Shall be lifted, Nevermore. End of the raven
