The Raven by Edgar Allan Poe: Midnight Grief, Lenore & ‘Nevermore’

Reading transcript: “The Raven” by Edgar Allan Poe, narrated by Henrique Couto. Advertising omitted. Obvious transcription spellings corrected against the published poem; spoken variations retained.

The Raven by Edgar Allan Poe
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 someone 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 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 named Lenore,
Nameless here, forevermore.
The silken sad uncertain rustling
Of each purple curtain,
Thrilled me, filled me with fantastic terror
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.
That is it, 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 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, somewhat 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.
Much I marveled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly.
Though its answer little meaning, little relevancy bore,
for we cannot help agreeing that not 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 a 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 mutters 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 my sad fancy into smiling straight i wheeled a cushioned seat
in front of the 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
from thy memories of Lenore.
Quaff, oh, quaff this kind Nepenthe
and forget this lost Lenore.
Quoth the raven, nevermore.
Prophet, said I, thing of evil,
prophet, 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
Prophet, said I
Thing 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 Aidenn,
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 in parting,
Bird or fiend,
I shrieked upstarting.
Get thee back into the tempest
and the night's plutonian shore.
Leave no black plume as a token
of that lie thy soul hath spoken.
Leave my loneliness unbroken.
Quit the bust above 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 light 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