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The Raven
By Edgar Allan Poe (1809–1849)
First published in 1845
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 blest 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 further 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 my sad 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 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 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!
About the Poem
With Halloween just a few days away, I could hardly resist choosing one of my favorite poems, Edgar Allan Poe’s “The Raven.” Of course, I love nearly all of Poe’s poetry. There is something hauntingly beautiful about his writing, the way he can take grief, loneliness, fear, and longing and transform them into something almost musical. His poetry is dark, certainly, but it is also extraordinarily beautiful.
Whenever I read “The Raven,” I always hear it in the unmistakable voice of Vincent Price. Price made a famous recording of the poem, and I suspect many people of my generation remember a teacher pulling that record from its sleeve, carefully placing it on the classroom record player, and lowering the needle. Then came that wonderfully theatrical voice, deep, resonant, and just sinister enough to send a chill down your spine. Price had a remarkable ability to make even the simplest words sound deliciously ominous, and his reading of “The Raven” was unforgettable. I can still hear him uttering “Quoth the Raven ‘Nevermore’” with just the right mixture of melancholy and menace. For me, Poe’s poetry and Vincent Price’s voice will forever be connected.
Incidentally, I came across the job posting for Curator of Educational Programs at the Vincent Price Art Museum in Los Angeles just this morning. As much as I admire Vincent Price and love the idea of working at a museum bearing his name, I have absolutely no desire to live in Los Angeles. Still, I couldn’t help smiling at the coincidence.
What I find most compelling about “The Raven” is that, beneath its Gothic atmosphere and supernatural suggestions, it is really a poem about grief. The raven itself may be nothing more than an ordinary bird that has learned a single word, but the narrator gives that word increasingly terrible meaning. He asks questions to which he desperately wants comforting answers, even as he seems to know what the raven will say. His torment comes not necessarily from the bird, but from his own inability to escape his sorrow.
Perhaps that is what makes the poem so frightening. There is no monster lurking in the darkness, no ghost rising from the grave, and no murderer waiting behind the door. Instead, the horror comes from within, from the memories and regrets that haunt us long after someone we love is gone. The raven becomes a symbol of a grief that refuses to leave, and its repeated “Nevermore” is the terrible finality of loss.
And yet, even with all its sorrow, I find “The Raven” magnificent. Poe’s language, rhythm, and imagery make it a poem that demands to be read aloud, preferably on a dark and stormy night. If you can manage to hear Vincent Price narrating it, so much the better.
First published on January 29, 1845, in the New York Evening Mirror, “The Raven” became an immediate sensation and established Edgar Allan Poe as one of America’s most recognizable literary figures. Its popularity was extraordinary, and readers were captivated by its hypnotic rhythm, intricate rhymes, and mysterious atmosphere.
The poem follows an unnamed narrator mourning the death of his beloved Lenore. Alone in his chamber on a bleak December night, he hears a tapping at his door and then at his window. When he opens the shutter, a raven enters and settles upon a bust of Pallas Athena, the Greek goddess of wisdom. The bird speaks only one word, “Nevermore,” but the narrator gradually interprets that word as a series of increasingly devastating answers to his questions about grief, hope, and the possibility of reunion with Lenore in the afterlife.
Poe was a master of poetic sound. “The Raven” employs trochaic octameter, internal rhyme, alliteration, and repetition to create its distinctive, almost hypnotic musicality. The recurring “Nevermore” serves as a refrain, becoming more ominous with each appearance. What begins as a curious encounter gradually develops into a psychological nightmare.
In his 1846 essay “The Philosophy of Composition,” Poe described his approach to writing “The Raven,” explaining his deliberate choices of subject, atmosphere, and poetic structure. He argued that the death of a beautiful woman was among the most melancholy subjects in poetry and that a raven, with its dark appearance and capacity to imitate human speech, was an ideal messenger for the poem’s refrain.
The raven’s perch upon the bust of Pallas Athena is also significant. Athena represents wisdom and reason, yet the narrator increasingly abandons rational thought as his grief overwhelms him. The bird’s position above the door suggests an inescapable presence, while its final shadow becomes a powerful symbol of the narrator’s despair.
Although “The Raven” is frequently associated with Halloween, its enduring appeal goes far beyond its Gothic imagery. It explores the universal human experience of mourning and the painful realization that some losses cannot be undone.
About the Poet
Edgar Allan Poe (January 19, 1809 – October 7, 1849) was an American poet, short-story writer, literary critic, and editor whose work helped shape Gothic literature, psychological horror, and the modern detective story. His influence extends far beyond American literature into film, music, and popular culture.
Born in Boston, Massachusetts, Poe experienced tragedy early in life. His father abandoned the family, and his mother died when he was only two years old. He was taken in by John and Frances Allan of Richmond, Virginia, though he was never formally adopted. His relationship with John Allan was often strained, particularly over financial matters.
Poe attended the University of Virginia briefly and later enlisted in the United States Army. He also entered the United States Military Academy at West Point but was dismissed in 1831. He eventually pursued a career in writing and editing, working for several literary publications while struggling with financial insecurity.
In 1836, Poe married his cousin Virginia Clemm, who was thirteen at the time. Their marriage lasted until her death from tuberculosis in 1847. Virginia’s illness and death profoundly affected Poe, and themes of lost love, mortality, and mourning appear repeatedly throughout his poetry and fiction.
Among his best-known poems are “Annabel Lee,” “The Bells,” “Ulalume,” and “A Dream Within a Dream.” His short stories, including “The Tell-Tale Heart,” “The Fall of the House of Usher,” “The Black Cat,” and “The Masque of the Red Death,” remain classics of Gothic horror. His 1841 story “The Murders in the Rue Morgue” is widely regarded as a foundational work of modern detective fiction.
Poe died in Baltimore on October 7, 1849, at the age of forty. The circumstances surrounding his death remain uncertain, adding one final mystery to a life that has become almost as legendary as his writing.
Although Poe struggled to achieve financial stability during his lifetime, his literary legacy has proved extraordinary. His ability to explore the darkest corners of the human imagination while maintaining a remarkable sense of beauty and musicality continues to captivate readers nearly two centuries later.
Perhaps that is why Poe remains such a perfect poet for Halloween. His writing reminds us that the most haunting things are not always the supernatural horrors that lurk in the shadows, but the very human emotions that remain with us long after the darkness has passed.
And as the raven would remind us, some things stay with us forevermore.
