BDB Presents Poe: The Raven

 

Tohr: *Once upon a midnight dreary, while I ponder weak and weary, Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore*

Tohr: *While I nod, nearly napping, suddenly there comes a tapping, As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door*

Tohr: `’Tis some visitor,*muttering* tapping at my chamber door – Only this, and nothing more.

Tohr: *Ah, distinctly I remember it is in the bleak October, And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor*

Tohr: *Eagerly I wish for the morrow; – vainly I had sought to borrow. From my books surcease of sorrow – sorrow for my lost mi amor -*

Tohr: *For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels named Wellesandra, mi amor -Nameless here for evermore*

Tohr: *And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtain. Thrill me – fill me with fantastic terrors never felt before*

Tohr: *So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stand repeating* Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door

Tohr: Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door; This it is, and nothing more

Tohr: *Presently my soul grows stronger; hesitating then no longer* Sir,or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore

Tohr: But the fact is I am napping, and so gently you came rapping, And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door

Tohr: That I scarce was sure I heard you *opening wide the door. Darkness there, and nothing more*

Tohr: *Deep into that darkness peering, long I stand there wondering, fearing, doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before*

Tohr: *But the silence is unbroken, and the darkness gives no token, And the only word there spoken is the whispered words, Wellesandra, mi amor!*

Tohr: *This I whisper, and an echo murmured back the words, Wellesandra, mi amor!*

Tohr: *Merely this and nothing more*

Tohr: *Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning, Soon again I hear a tapping somewhat louder than before*

Tohr: Surely *whispering* surely that is something at my window lattice *Let me see then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore*

Tohr: *Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore* Tis the wind and nothing more!

Tohr: *Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter, In there steps a stately raven of the saintly days of yore*

Tohr: *Not the least obeisance makes he; not a minute stops or stays he. But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door *

Tohr: *Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door. Perched, and sat, and nothing more*

Tohr: *Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling. By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore*

Tohr: Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou, art sure no craven. Ghastly grim and ancient raven wandering from the nightly shore

Tohr: Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night’s Plutonian shore!

Tohr: *To my dismay, quoth the raven* Nevermore.

Tohr: *Much I marvel this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly. Though its answer little meaning – little relevancy bore*

Tohr: *For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door*

Tohr: *Bird or beast above the sculptured bust above his chamber door with such name as Nevermore.*

Tohr: *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*

Tohr: *Nothing further then did he utter – not a feather then he did flutter*

Tohr: *Till I scarcely more than muttered* Other friends have flown before. On the morrow he will leave me, as my hopes have flown before.

Tohr: *Then the bird said* Nevermore

Tohr: *Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken* Doubtless *what it utters is its only stock and store*

Tohr: *Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful disaster followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore *

Tohr: *Till the dirges of his hope that melancholy burden bore of Never-nevermore*’

Tohr: *But the raven still beguiling all my sad soul into smiling, straight I wheel a cushioned seat in front of bird and bust and door*

Tohr: *Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore *

Tohr: *What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore meant in croaking `Nevermore’.*

Tohr: *This I sit engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing to the fowl whose fiery eyes now burning into my bosom’s core*

Tohr: *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*

Tohr: *But whose velvet violet lining with the lamp-light gloating o’er, She shall press, ah, nevermore*

Tohr: *Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer swung by Seraphim whose foot-falls tinkle on the tufted floor*

Tohr: Wretch, *crying out* thy God hath lent thee – by these angels he has sent thee

Tohr: Respite – respite and nepenthe from thy memories of Wellesandra, mi amor!

Tohr: Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe, and forget this lost Wellesandra, mi amor!

Tohr: *Quoth the raven* ‘Nevermore.’

Tohr: Prophet! Thing of evil! – prophet still, if bird or devil! Whether tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore

Tohr: Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted. On this home by horror haunted. Tell me truly, I implore –

Tohr: *voice raising* Is there – is there balm in The Fade? – tell me – tell me, I implore!

Tohr: *Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.’*

Tohr: Prophet! Thing of evil! Prophet still, if bird or devil! By that Heaven that bends above us – by that Scribe Virgin we both adore

Tohr: Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Fade, It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels named Wellesandra, mi amor

Tohr: Clasp a rare and radiant maiden, whom the angels named Wellesandra, mi amor?

Tohr: *Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.’*

Tohr:  Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend! *my shriek upstarting* Get thee back into the tempest and the Night’s Plutonian shore!

Tohr: Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken! Leave my loneliness unbroken! Quit the bust above my door!

Tohr: Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!

Tohr: *Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.’*

Tohr: *And the raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting on the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door*

Tohr: 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*

Tohr: *And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor shall be lifted – nevermore!*

 

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