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 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 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 name Lenore—
   Nameless here for evermore.

 And the silken, sad, uncertain rustling of each 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
 “’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 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 marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse 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 sculptured 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 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 fancy 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 lamp-light gloated o’er,
But whose velvet-violet lining with the lamp-light gloating o’er,
   She shall press, ah, nevermore!

 Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer
Swung by Seraphim whose foot-falls 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 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.”

 “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 of 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 lamp-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!

Sometimes, there are pieces of literature that are ingrained in your mind with a voice that is not your own. One of those is Linus reciting Chapter 2 from the Gospel of Luke in A Charlie Brown Christmas. Likewise, I can never read “The Raven” without hearing it in Vincent Price’s voice. Christopher Lee also did a famous reading of the poem, but It’s Vincent Price that I would suspect every American of my generation, and possibly the one before, is more familiar with the Vincent Price version. One of my teachers had a record of the Price version, and I have always found it wonderfully creepy, as Vincent Price’s voice always was. His horror movies were dreadful, but Price’s voice is what really made him famous. Take a listen:

“The Raven” was first attributed to Poe in print in the New York Evening Mirror on January 29, 1845. Its publication made Poe popular in his lifetime, although it did not bring him much financial success. The poem was soon reprinted, parodied, and illustrated. Critical opinion is divided as to the poem’s literary status, but it nevertheless remains one of the most famous poems ever written.

The poem tells of a distraught lover who is paid a mysterious visit by a talking raven. The lover, often identified as a student, is lamenting the loss of his love, Lenore. Sitting on a bust of Pallas (an epithet of the Greek Goddess Athena which recalls her attributes as the goddess of warfare), the raven seems to further antagonize the protagonist with its constant repetition of the word “Nevermore”. The poem makes use of folk, mythological, religious, and classical references. Poe claimed to have written the poem logically and methodically, with the intention to create a poem that would appeal to both critical and popular tastes, as he explained in his 1846 follow-up essay, “The Philosophy of Composition.”

In the essay, Poe traces the logical progression of his creation of “The Raven” as an attempt to compose “a poem that should suit at once the popular and the critical taste.” He claims that he considered every aspect of the poem. For example, he purposely set the poem on a, pardon the cliché, dark and stormy night, causing the raven to seek shelter. He purposefully chose a pallid bust to contrast with the dark plume of the bird. The bust was of Pallas in order to evoke the notion of scholar, to match with the presumed student narrator poring over his “volume[s] of forgotten lore.” No aspect of the poem was an accident, he claims, but is based on total control by the author.

Even the term “Nevermore,” he says, is based on logic following the “unity of effect.” The essay states Poe’s conviction that a work of fiction should be written only after the author has decided how it is to end and which emotional response, or “effect,” he wishes to create. Once this effect has been determined, the writer should decide all other matters pertaining to the composition of the work, including tone, theme, setting, characters, conflict, and plot. In this case, Poe logically decides on “the death… of a beautiful woman” because it is “unquestionably the most poetical topic in the world.” Some commentators have taken this to imply that pure poetry can only be attained by the eradication of female beauty. Biographers and critics have often suggested that Poe’s obsession with this theme stems from the repeated loss of women throughout his life, including his mother Eliza Poe, his foster mother Frances Allan and, later, his wife Virginia.

The raven itself, Poe says, is meant to become symbolic by the end of the poem. By the end, Poe wanted his reader to see the Raven as symbolic, but it is not to appear so until the very last stanza when the reader is to see the Raven as symbolic of Mournful and Never-ending. This may imply an autobiographical significance to the poem, alluding to the many people in Poe’s life who had died.

Poe is widely regarded as a central figure of Romanticism and Gothic fiction in the United States and is best known for his poetry, such as “The Raven” and short stories, particularly his tales of mystery and the macabre. While not all of his writings were Gothic, all of his writing is anchored in Romanticism. The fictionalized portrayals of Poe often show him as a “mad genius” or “tormented artist” while blending depictions of the characters in his stories suggesting that Poe and his characters share identities. I always associate Poe with the macabre aspects of Halloween, which is why I am featuring Poe and his most famous poem today of all days.

Happy Halloween!