Username: Scooterfrozenrabbit
Name: Slick
Gender: Male
Once upon an evening dreary, while I pondered, bored and weary,
Over many a burning ember, from the men that brought the fire—
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of some one gently padding, padding along the woodland floor.
“’Tis some visitor,” I muttered, “tapping on the woodland floor—
Only this and nothing more.”
Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak November;
And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.
Eagerly I wished the morrow;—vainly I had sought to borrow
From the lore of Silhou, member—sorrow for the lost Hounds poor,—
For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore—
Nameless here for evermore.
And the silken, sad, uncertain rustling of each branch is certain,
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 of the woodland, sure—
Some late visitor entreating entrance upon the woodland floor;—
This it is and nothing more.”
Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,
“Hound,” said I, “or Human, truly your forgiveness I implore;
But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came padding,
And so faintly you came tapping, tapping on the woodland floor,
That I scarce was sure I heard you”—here I glanced up from the floor;—
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 tunnel, 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 underground, for sure;
Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore—
Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore;—
’Tis a mole and nothing more!”
Then, just here I dug a gutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,
Behind me flew 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 upon the woodland floor—
Perched upon a rock embedded simply in the woodland floor—
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 Houndlike being
Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird upon the woodland floor—
Bird or beast atop a stone that sat upon the woodland floor,
With such name as “Nevermore.”
But the Raven, sitting lonely on the placid stone, 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—
Till the dirges of his Hope that melancholy burden bore
Of ‘Never—nevermore’.”
But the Raven still beguiling all my fancy into smiling,
Straight I pushed some leaves in front of bird, and stone and floor;
Then, upon the soil 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 coat’s core;
This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining
On the leaves that I had lining that the moonlight gloated o’er,
But whose brown and orange lining with the moonlight 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 Silhou sent, or whether Silhou tossed thee here ashore,
Desolate yet all undaunted, on this woody land enchanted—
On this home by Horror haunted—tell me truly, I implore—
Is there—are there humans 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 Oekaki that bends above us—by that artist 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 sit upon my floor!
Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form of from my floor!”
Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”
And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
On the lumpy rock embedded in the woodland floor;
And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon’s that is dreaming,
And the moonlight 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!
Blatantly copied from Edgar Allan Poe's The Raven.
