The Anglish Moot

by Edgar Allen Poe

Once upon a midnight dreary, while I thought o'er, weak and weary,
Over many a wal of odd and weird forgotten lore,
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of some one softly rapping, rapping at my room door.
"'T is some caller," I muttered, "tapping at my room door
-Only this, and nothing more.

"Ah, clearly I man it was in the bleak Yulemonth,
And each sundered dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.
Earnestly I wished the morrow:—emptily I had sought to borrow
From my books elder of sorrow—sorrow for the lost Lenore—

For the seldom and glowing maiden whom the errand-ghosts name Lenore
-Nameless here for evermore.

And the silken sad unsure rustling of each purple hang-cloth
Thrilled me—filled me with dreamful fears never felt before;
So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood edledging
"'T is some caller beseeching ingoing at my room door
Some late caller beseeching ingoing at my room door;
—This it is, and nothing more."

Gainwardly my soul grew stronger; swithering then no longer,
"My Lord," said I, "or My lady, truly your forgiveness I beg for;
But the thing is I was napping, and so softly you came rapping
,And so hushly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door,
That I barely 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,
Qualming, dreaming dreams no deathling ever dared to dream before;
But the hushness was unbroken, and the darkness gave no token,
And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, "Lenore!"
This I whispered, and a witherclank muttered back the word, "Lenore!"
-Only this and nothing more.

Back into the room churning, 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 lath;
Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this hidden thing aseek for—
Let my heart be still a twinkling and this hidden thing aseek for;
—'Tis the wind and nothing more!"

Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,
In there stepped an athel Raven of the holy days of yore.
Not the least hearsomeness made he; not a shortlog stopped or stayed he;
But, with look of lord or lady, perched above my room door—
Perched upon a chest of Pallas right above my room door
—Perched, and sat, and nothing more.

Then this nightly bird beguiling my sad liking into smiling,
By the grave and stern seemliness of the forside it wore,
"Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou," I said, "art sure no craven,
Ghastly grim and eldern Raven wandering from the Nightly shore,—
Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night's Plutonish shore!"
-Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."

Much I wondered this ungainly bird to hear talking so flatly,
Though its answer little meaning—little handiness bore;
For we cannot help agreeing that no living being
Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his room door—
Bird or wight upon the shapen chest above his room door,
-With such name as "Nevermore."

But the Raven, sitting lonely on the kindly chest, spoke only
That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outyote.
Nothing further then he uttered—not a feather then he fluttered—
Till I barely 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 answer so well spoken,
"Surely," said I, "what it utters is its only stock and store,
Caught from some unhappy owner whom unmiltsful Banestrike
Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore—
Till the deathsongs of his Hope that woeful burden bore
-Of 'Never—nevermore.'"

But the Raven still beguiling all my sad soul into smiling,
Straight I wheeled a mattressed seat in front of bird and chest and door;
Then, upon the smooth sinking, I betook myself to linking
Linking unto linking, thinking what this foreboding bird of yore—
What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, stumpy and foreboding bird of yore
-Meant in croaking "Nevermore.

"This I sat betrothed in guessing, but no worddeal uttering
To the bird whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom's heart;
This and more I sat weedgling, with my head at weem back-lying
On the mattress' smooth lining that the chellight gloated o'er,
But whose smooth purple lining with the chelllight gloating o'er
She shall thring, ah, nevermore!

Then, methought, the loft grew thicker, besmelled from an unseen besmeller
Swung by highboder whose foot-falls tinkled on the lumped floor.
"Wretch," I cried, "thy God hath lent thee—by these errand-ghosts he hath sent thee
Layoff—Layoff and unmourn from thy bemindings of Lenore!
Quaff, oh quaff this kind unmourn, and forget this lost Lenore!"
-Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."

"Soothsayer!" said I, "thing of evil!—soothsayer still, if bird or devil!—
Whether Coster sent, or whether billows tossed thee here ashore,
Alone yet all unshaken, on this empty land begaldored—
On this home by Ghastliness hounded—tell me truly, I beg for—
Is there—is there heelth in Gilead?—tell me—tell me, I beg for"
-Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."

"Soothsayer!" said I, "thing of evil—soothsayer still, if bird or devil!
By that Heaven that bends above, us—by that God we both give worth for—
Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the far-off Aidenn,
It shall clasp a hallowed maiden whom the boders name Lenore—
Clasp a seldom, glowing maiden whom the boders name Lenore."
-Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."

"Be that word our tok'n of sund'ring, bird or fiend!" I shrieked, upstarting—
"Get thee back into the billow and the Night's Plutonish shore!
Leave no black feather as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!
Leave my loneliness unbroken!—quit the chest above my door!
Take thy bill from out my heart, and take thy shape from off my door!"
-Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."

And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
On the fallow chest of Pallas right above my room door;
And his eyes have all the seeming of a devil's that is dreaming,
And the chellight 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!

Gr8asb8 00:29, September 14, 2010 (UTC)