The Raven - Edgar Allan Poe (1809 – 1849)
Autor: Edison Gonçalves Silva | Publicado: 2012-04-30T17:26:00-07:00















Illustrations by Gustave Doré (1832 - 1883)

























































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 visiter," 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 tried 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 visiter entreating entrance at my chamber door—





Some late
visiter 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 darkness 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.



















Then into
the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,





Soon I
heard again 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 an instant 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.


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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 sublunary being





Ever yet
was blessed 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
farther 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."





Quoth the
raven, "Nevermore."

















Wondering
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—so, when Hope he would adjure,





Stern
Despair returned, instead of the sweet Hope he dared adjure—





That sad
answer, "Nevermore!"













But the
raven still beguiling all my sad soul 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 lamplight gloating o'er,





She shall
press, ah, nevermore!



















Then,
methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer





Swung by
angels 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!





Let me
quaff this kind Nepenthe and forget this lost Lenore!"





Quoth the
raven, "Nevermore."





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"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."





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"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 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!

















The End







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