The Raven

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 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

 

I have always loved the poetry of Edgar Allan Poe, and while there may be other poems just as suited for the week of Halloween, few are as iconic as “The Raven.” Though I don’t post it every year on the Tuesday closest to Halloween, I have posted it several times in the past.

 

“The Raven” explores themes of grief, despair, and the nature of death. Set on a dreary December night, the poem follows a sorrowful narrator as he is visited by a mysterious raven, who only responds to his questions with the word “Nevermore.” The poem’s haunting atmosphere, melancholic tone, and musical rhythm contribute to its exploration of loss, madness, and the search for meaning in suffering. At the heart of “The Raven” is the narrator’s profound grief over the loss of Lenore, his beloved. His sorrow permeates the poem, driving him to seek any kind of answer or closure, even from a bird. Poe’s use of repetition, especially in the phrase “Nevermore,” underscores the relentlessness of the narrator’s grief. The raven’s repeated answer becomes a cruel reminder that Lenore is lost to him forever, cementing his despair.

 

As the poem progresses, the narrator becomes increasingly agitated by the raven’s presence and response. His desperation for answers about the afterlife and whether he will see Lenore again leads him down a spiral of self-torment. The raven, by continuously answering “Nevermore,” seems to drive the narrator to the brink of madness, revealing how unresolved grief can consume one’s mind, pushing them to irrationality and hopelessness. The raven itself is a symbol of death and the unknown, and its arrival at midnight—the “witching hour”—heightens the eerie atmosphere. In mythology, ravens are often associated with omens and the supernatural, making it an ideal symbol for the poem’s meditation on mortality. The bird’s repeated answer and seemingly omniscient presence suggest a sense of finality and unchangeable fate, confronting the narrator with the harsh reality that death is permanent and impenetrable.

 

The narrator’s loneliness is palpable; he is isolated in his chamber, seeking solace in his books but finding only reminders of Lenore’s absence. His interaction with the raven reflects a deeper yearning for understanding and connection, as he grapples with existential questions about life and the afterlife. However, the raven’s unchanging response, “Nevermore,” reinforces his isolation, suggesting that answers to life’s ultimate questions may be beyond human comprehension. The raven represents an unrelenting reminder of the narrator’s despair and hopelessness. “Nevermore” evolves in meaning throughout the poem—from a seemingly meaningless word to a symbol of the narrator’s ultimate fate. Initially, the narrator tries to rationalize the bird’s response, but as his desperation grows, he starts to interpret “Nevermore” as a direct response to his deepest fears and questions about life, death, and reunion with Lenore.

 

Poe’s use of dark, gothic imagery, such as the “midnight dreary,” “forgotten lore,” and the “silken, sad, uncertain rustling” of curtains, intensifies the eerie and melancholic tone. The chamber becomes a space of haunting introspection, where shadows and the raven itself take on an almost supernatural life. This rich, atmospheric imagery heightens the reader’s sense of dread and mirrors the narrator’s emotional turmoil.

 

“The Raven” is a psychological exploration of grief’s power to consume the mind, blending themes of love, loss, and the search for meaning with supernatural and gothic elements. Poe crafts a haunting, rhythmic poem that leads readers through a harrowing descent into despair, as the narrator’s fixation on the raven’s relentless “Nevermore” becomes a reflection of his own inescapable sorrow. Through this tragic exploration of death and memory, Poe captures the intractable pain of loss and the futility of seeking answers from the unknown.

Vincent Price's reading of "The Raven" remains iconic because it combines his unique talent with the timeless appeal of Poe's poetry, creating a lasting impact on literature and popular culture. Price had a deep, resonant voice that brought a dramatic and captivating quality to the poem. His ability to convey emotion and tension enhanced the chilling atmosphere of Poe's work. Price was not just a talented actor; he was also a fan of Poe's literature. His interpretation of "The Raven" combined theatrical flair with a deep appreciation for the poem's themes, making it memorable for audiences.

 

The recording was part of a larger trend in the mid-20th century where classic literature was brought to new audiences through audio and television. Price's rendition helped revive interest in Poe's work during a time when horror and gothic literature were gaining popularity. Price's reading was often accompanied by atmospheric visuals or settings that complemented the dark themes of the poem, making it a holistic experience for the audience.

About the Poet

 

Edgar Allan Poe (1809-1849) was an American writer, poet, and literary critic, born on January 19, 1809, in Boston, Massachusetts. Orphaned at a young age, he was taken in by John and Frances Allan, but his relationship with them was tumultuous. Poe attended the University of Virginia but left due to financial difficulties and later enlisted in the Army.

 

Poe's literary career began with the publication of his first collection of poems in 1827, but he gained wider recognition through his short stories, particularly those featuring themes of horror and the macabre. His notable works include "The Raven," "The Tell-Tale Heart," and "The Fall of the House of Usher." He is also credited with pioneering the detective fiction genre with "The Murders in the Rue Morgue."

 

Despite his literary success, Poe struggled with personal demons, including alcoholism and depression. He experienced significant losses in his life, including the death of his wife, Virginia Clemm, in 1847. On October 7, 1849, Poe died under mysterious circumstances in Baltimore, Maryland. His legacy endures through his profound influence on literature, particularly in the genres of horror and mystery, making him a key figure in American Romanticism.

 

 

With a poem exploring the themes of grief, despair, and the nature of death, I wanted to add a little levity to the post. Here are two of my favorite Edgar Allan Poe memes.

Poe used to write with his cat, Caterina, on his shoulder. A visitor to Poe's home observed the cat "purring as if in approval of the work proceeding under her supervision." If you ever owned a cat, you know they can be judgmental creatures, and occasionally, they judge us worthy of a purr. Just one more reason to love Poe.