The Raven (Penguin)

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by Edgar Allan Poe


  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 farther then he uttered—not a feather then he futtered—

  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 lamplight 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 faint 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 of 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!

  Ulalume—A Ballad

  The skies they were ashen and sober;

  The leaves they were crispéd and sere—

  The leaves they were withering and sere;

  It was night in the lonesome October

  Of my most immemorial year:

  It was hard by the dim lake of Auber,

  In the misty mid region of Weir:—

  It was down by the dank tarn of Auber,

  In the ghoul-haunted woodland of Weir.

  Here once, through an alley Titanic,

  Of cypress, I roamed with my Soul—

  Of cypress, with Psyche, my Soul.

  There were days when my heart was volcanic

  As the scoriac rivers that roll—

  As the lavas that restlessly roll

  Their sulphurous currents down Yaanek,

  In the ultimate climes of the Pole—

  That groan as they roll down Mount Yaanek

  In the realms of the Boreal Pole.

  Our talk had been serious and sober,

  But our thoughts they were palsied and sere—

  Our memories were treacherous and sere;

  For we knew not the month was October,

  And we marked not the night of the year—

  (Ah, night of all nights in the year!)

  We noted not the dim lake of Auber,

  (Though once we had journeyed down here)

  We remembered not the dank tarn of Auber,

  Nor the ghoul-haunted woodland of Weir.

  And now, as the night was senescent,

  And star-dials pointed to morn—

  As the star-dials hinted of morn—

  At the end of our path a liquescent

  And nebulous lustre was born,

  Out of which a miraculous crescent

  Arose with a duplicate horn—

  Astarte’s bediamonded crescent,

  Distinct with its duplicate horn.

  And I said—“She is warmer than Dian;

  She rolls through an ether of sighs—

  She revels in a region of sighs.

  She has seen that the tears are not dry on

  These cheeks where the worm never dies,

  And has come past the stars of the Lion,

  To point us the path to the skies—

  To the Lethean peace of the skies—

  Come up, in despite of the Lion,

  To shine on us with her bright eyes—

  Come up, through the lair of the Lion,

  With love in her luminous eyes.”

  But Psyche, uplifting her finger,

  Said—“Sadly this star I mistrust—

  Her pallor I strangely mistrust—

  Ah, hasten!—ah, let us not linger!

  Ah, fly!—let us fly!—for we must.”

  In terror she spoke; letting sink her

  Wings till they trailed in the dust—

  In agony sobbed; letting sink her

  Plumes till they trailed in the dust—

  Till they sorrowfully trailed in the dust.

  I replied—“This is nothing but dreaming.

  Let us on, by this tremulous light!

  Let us bathe in this crystalline light!

  Its Sybillic splendor is beaming

  With Hope and in Beauty to-night—

  See!—it flickers up the sky through the night!

  Ah, we safely may trust to its gleaming,

  And be sure it will lead us aright—

  We safely may trust to a gleaming

  That cannot but guide us aright,

  Since it flickers up to Heaven through the night.”

  Thus I pacified Psyche and kissed her,

  And tempted her out of her gloom—

  And conquered her scruples and gloom;

  And we passed to the end of the vista—

  But were stopped by the door of a tomb—

  By the door of a legended tomb:—

  And I said—“What is written, sweet sister,

  On the door of this legended tomb?”

  She replied—“Ulalume—Ulalume!—

  ’T is the vault of
thy lost Ulalume!”

  Then my heart it grew ashen and sober

  As the leaves that were crispéd and sere—

  As the leaves that were withering and sere—

  And I cried—“It was surely October

  On this very night of last year,

  That I journeyed—I journeyed down here!—

  That I brought a dread burden down here—

  On this night, of all nights in the year,

  Ah, what demon hath tempted me here?

  Well I know, now, this dim lake of Auber—

  This misty mid region of Weir:—

  Well I know, now, this dank tarn of Auber—

  This ghoul-haunted woodland of Weir.”

  Said we, then—the two, then—“Ah, can it

  Have been that the woodlandish ghouls—

  The pitiful, the merciful ghouls,

  To bar up our way and to ban it

  From the secret that lies in these wolds—

  From the thing that lies hidden in these wolds—

  Have drawn up the spectre of a planet

  From the limbo of lunary souls—

  This sinfully scintillant planet

  From the Hell of planetary souls?”

  The Bells

  1.

  Hear the sledges with the bells—

  Silver bells!

  What a world of merriment their melody foretells!

  How they tinkle, tinkle, tinkle,

  In the icy air of night!

  While the stars that oversprinkle

  All the Heavens, seem to twinkle

  With a crystalline delight;

  Keeping time, time, time,

  In a sort of Runic rhyme,

  To the tintinnabulation that so musically wells

  From the bells, bells, bells, bells,

  Bells, bells, bells—

  From the jingling and the tinkling of the bells.

  2.

  Hear the mellow wedding bells—

  Golden bells!

  What a world of happiness their harmony foretells!

  Through the balmy air of night

  How they ring out their delight!

  From the molten-golden notes,

  And all in tune,

  What a liquid ditty floats

  To the turtle-dove that listens, while she gloats

  On the moon!

  Oh, from out the sounding cells

  What a gush of euphony voluminously wells!

  How it swells!

  How it dwells

  On the Future! how it tells

  Of the rapture that impels

  To the swinging and the ringing

  Of the bells, bells, bells!—

  Of the bells, bells, bells, bells,

  Bells, bells, bells—

  To the rhyming and the chiming of the bells!

  3.

  Hear the loud alarum bells—

  Brazen bells!

  What tale of terror, now, their turbulency tells!

  In the startled ear of Night

  How they scream out their affright!

  Too much horrified to speak,

  They can only shriek, shriek,

  Out of tune,

  In a clamorous appealing to the mercy of the fire—

  In a mad expostulation with the deaf and frantic

  fire,

  Leaping higher, higher, higher,

  With a desperate desire,

  And a resolute endeavor

  Now—now to sit or never,

  By the side of the pale-faced moon.

  Oh, the bells, bells, bells!

  What a tale their terror tells

  Of despair!

  How they clang and clash and roar!

  What a horror they outpour

  In the bosom of the palpitating air!

  Yet the ear, it fully knows,

  By the twanging,

  And the clanging,

  How the danger ebbs and flows;

  Yes, the ear distinctly tells,

  In the jangling,

  And the wrangling,

  How the danger sinks and swells,

  By the sinking or the swelling in the anger of the bells—

  Of the bells—

  Of the bells, bells, bells, bells,

  Bells, bells, bells—

  In the clamor and the clangor of the bells!

  4.

  Hear the tolling of the bells—

  Iron bells!

  What a world of solemn thought their monody compels!

  In the silence of the night,

  How we shiver with affright

  At the melancholy meaning of their tone!

  For every sound that floats

  From the rust within their throats

  Is a groan.

  And the people—ah, the people—

  They that dwell up in the steeple,

  All alone,

  And who, tolling, tolling, tolling,

  In that muffled monotone,

  Feel a glory in so rolling

  On the human heart a stone—

  They are neither man nor woman—

  They are neither brute nor human—

  They are Ghouls:—

  And their king it is who tolls;

  And he rolls, rolls, rolls, rolls,

  A Pæan from the bells!

  And his merry bosom swells

  With the Pæan of the bells!

  And he dances, and he yells;

  Keeping time, time, time,

  In a sort of Runic rhyme,

  To the Pæan of the bells—

  Of the bells:

  Keeping time, time, time,

  In a sort of Runic rhyme,

  To the throbbing of the bells—

  Of the bells, bells, bells—

  To the sobbing of the bells;

  Keeping time, time, time,

  As he knells, knells, knells,

  In a happy Runic rhyme,

  To the rolling of the bells—

  Of the bells, bells, bells:—

  To the tolling of the bells—

  Of the bells, bells, bells, bells,

  Bells, bells, bells—

  To the moaning and the groaning of the bells.

  A Dream within a Dream

  Take this kiss upon the brow!

  And, in parting from you now,

  Thus much let me avow—

  You are not wrong, who deem

  That my days have been a dream;

  Yet if hope has flown away

  In a night, or in a day,

  In a vision, or in none,

  Is it therefore the less gone?

  All that we see or seem

  Is but a dream within a dream.

  I stand amid the roar

  Of a surf-tormented shore,

  And I hold within my hand

  Grains of the golden sand—

  How few! yet how they creep

  Through my fingers to the deep,

  While I weep—while I weep!

  O God! can I not grasp

  Them with a tighter clasp?

  O God! can I not save

  One from the pitiless wave?

  Is all that we see or seem

  But a dream within a dream?

  For Annie

  Thank Heaven! the crisis—

  The danger is past,

  And the lingering illness

  Is over at last—

  And the fever called “Living”

  Is conquered at last.

  Sadly, I know

  I am shorn of my strength,

  And no muscle I move

  As I lie at full length—

  But no matter!—I feel

  I am better at length.

  And I rest so composedly,

  Now, in my bed,

  That any beholder

  Might fancy me dead—

  Might start at beholding me,

  Thinking me dead.

  The moaning and groaning,
/>   The sighing and sobbing,

  Are quieted now,

  With that horrible throbbing

  At heart:—ah, that horrible,

  Horrible throbbing!

  The sickness—the nausea—

  The pitiless pain—

  Have ceased, with the fever

  That maddened my brain—

  With the fever called “Living”

  That burned in my brain.

  And oh! of all tortures

  That torture the worst

  Has abated—the terrible

  Torture of thirst

  For the naphthaline river

  Of Passion accurst:—

  I have drank of a water

  That quenches all thirst:—

  Of a water that flows,

  With a lullaby sound,

  From a spring but a very few

  Feet under ground—

  From a cavern not very far

  Down under ground.

  And ah! let it never

  Be foolishly said

  That my room it is gloomy

  And narrow my bed;

  For man never slept

  In a different bed—

  And, to sleep, you must slumber

  In just such a bed.

  My tantalized spirit

  Here blandly reposes,

  Forgetting, or never

  Regretting its roses—

  Its old agitations

  Of myrtles and roses:

  For now, while so quietly

  Lying, it fancies

  A holier odor

  About it, of pansies—

  A rosemary odor,

  Commingled with pansies—

  With rue and the beautiful

  Puritan pansies.

  And so it lies happily,

  Bathing in many

  A dream of the truth

  And the beauty of Annie—

  Drowned in a bath

  Of the tresses of Annie.

  She tenderly kissed me,

  She fondly caressed,

  And then I fell gently

  To sleep on her breast—

  Deeply to sleep

  From the heaven of her breast.

  When the light was extinguished,

  She covered me warm,

  And she prayed to the angels

  To keep me from harm—

  To the queen of the angels

  To shield me from harm.

  And I lie so composedly,

  Now, in my bed,

  (Knowing her love)

  That you fancy me dead—

  And I rest so contentedly,

  Now in my bed,

  (With her love at my breast)

  That you fancy me dead—

  That you shudder to look at me,

  Thinking me dead:—

  But my heart it is brighter

 

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