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 be ing 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 that 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." 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— Fill the dirges of his Hope that melancholy burden bore Of Never - 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 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 these angels he hath sent thee by Quaff, O 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 en plore 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!" 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! my door! quit the bust above Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!" Quotn 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! EDGAR ALLAN POE.1 IN SCHOOL-DAYS. STILL sits the school-house by the road, And blackberry-vines are running. Within, the master's desk is seen, I EDGAR ALLAN POE, born in Boston in 1809, was educated in Baltimore and in England, and studied at the University of Virginia, after which he passed a year in Europe. He wrote for and edited various magazines, and it was at this time he produced his extraordinary stories. The Raren is the one work, however, which has attained world-wide popularity and given Poe enduring fame. His mind was of a gloomy and morbid cast, which was enhanced by a loose life and intemperate habits He died at Baltimore in 1849. The charcoal frescos on its wall; The feet that, creeping slow to school, Long years ago a winter sun It touched the tangled golden curls, For near her stood the little boy Where pride and shame were mingled. Pushing with restless feet the snow The blue-checked apron fingered. He saw her lift her eyes; he felt "I'm sorry that I spelt the word: I hate to go above you, Because," the brown eyes lower fell, "Because, you see, I love you!" |