Once upon a midnight dreary, while Lute pondered, weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore,
While Lute nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of some one gently rapping, rapping at her chamber door.
"'Tis some visitor," Lute muttered, "tapping at my chamber door —
Only this, and nothing more."
Turned did Lute upon the door, unbeknownst what lie in store,
Thrilled her— filled her with fantastic terrors never felt before;
So that now, to still the beating of her heart, she 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 her soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,
"Sir," said Lute, "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 she opened wide the door; —
Darkness there, and nothing more.
Deep into that darkness peering, long she stood there wondering, fearing,
Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortals 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, "Artur?"
This she whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, "Artur!" —
Merely this, and nothing more.
Back into the chamber turning, all her soul within her burning,
Soon again she heard a tapping somewhat louder than before.
"Surely," said Lute, "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 Lute flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,
In there stepped a stately dragon 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 her chamber door —
Perched upon a bust of Alice just above her chamber door —
Perched, and sat, and nothing more.
Then this ivory creature beguiling her sad fancy into smiling,
By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore.
"Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou," Lute said, "art sure no craven,
Ghastly grim and ancient dragon wandering from the Nightly shore —
Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night's Plutonian shore!"
Quoth the Dragon, "Nevermore."
A smart and irksome beast was he that stood there perched,
Perched upon Lute's chamber door. Like angel or devil preparing for
What lies beyond mortal lore. Disturb this did, and Lute went asking,
"My sweet, lost Artur, is he well?" she asked, nay did implore
"Has he found peace upon God's far shore?"
Quoth the Dragon, "Nevermore."
"Prophet!" said Lute, "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 man whom the angels name Artur-
Clasp a rare and radiant man whom the angels name Artur."
Quoth the Dragon, "Nevermore."
"Be that word our sign in parting, bird or fiend," Lute 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 Dragon, "Nevermore."
And the Dragon, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
On the pallid bust of Alice just above Lute's 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 Lute's soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor
Shall be lifted — never...
So awoke Lute fitting, starting and shifting, affirming
"I've got to stop reading poetry before matches..." with head still sore;
Back to sleep to awake next day, with nothing but thoughts of winning,
winning over her foe of dreams. But a few spells it took and nothing more.
"Take that, foul beast and begone from my nighttime snore;
You shall win — Nevermore!"
