This is a modern-English version of The Raven, originally written by Poe, Edgar Allan.
It has been thoroughly updated, including changes to sentence structure, words, spelling,
and grammar—to ensure clarity for contemporary readers, while preserving the original spirit and nuance. If
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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 visiter,” I muttered, “tapping at my chamber door—
Only this and nothing more.”
Once upon a dreary midnight, as I thought, tired and exhausted,
Over many strange and fascinating books of forgotten knowledge—
While I dozed off, nearly asleep, suddenly there was a tapping,
Like someone gently knocking, knocking at my room’s door.
“It’s just a visitor,” I mumbled, “knocking at my room’s door—
“Just 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.
Ah, I clearly remember it was in the cold December,
And each fading ember cast its shadow on the floor.
I eagerly hoped for tomorrow;—futilely I had tried to borrow
From my books an end to sorrow—sorrow for the lost Lenore—
For the rare and radiant girl whom the angels call Lenore—
Nameless here for eternity.
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.”
And the soft, uncertain rustling of each purple curtain
Excited me—filled me with strange fears I’d never experienced before;
So now, to calm my racing heart, I kept saying
“It’s some visitor asking for entry at my door—
Some late visitor asking for entry at my door;
"That's all there is to it, nothing else."
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.
Right then, my spirit got stronger; not hesitating anymore,
“Sir,” I said, “or Madam, I sincerely ask for your forgiveness;
But I was actually napping, and you knocked so softly,
And you tapped so quietly at my room's door,
That I could barely tell if I heard you”—here I flung the door open—
Just darkness, and nothing more.
Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,
Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortals 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.
Deep in that darkness, I stood there for a long time, wondering and fearing, Doubting, dreaming dreams that no one has ever dared to dream before; But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no sign, And the only word spoken was the whispered word, “Lenore?” I whispered this, and an echo murmured back the word, “Lenore!”— Just this and nothing more.
Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,
Soon again I heard a tapping something 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.”
Back in the room, feeling all the passion inside me,
I soon heard a tapping, something louder than before.
“Definitely,” I said, “that’s something at my window;
Let me see what that is and figure out this mystery—
Let my heart be calm for a moment to uncover this mystery;—
"It's just the wind and nothing else."
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.
Open here I threw back the shutter, when, with a lot of flapping and fluttering,
In walked a majestic Raven from the holy days of the past.
He didn’t acknowledge me at all; he didn’t pause or linger for a second,
But, with the air of a lord or lady, settled above my bedroom door—
Perched on a bust of Pallas just above my bedroom door—
Perched and sat, and nothing more.
Then the 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.”
Then the black bird took my sad thoughts and made me smile,
With the serious and stern look it had,
“Even though your feathers are cut and trimmed, you,” I said, “are definitely not a coward,
Ghostly, grim, and ancient Raven drifting from the shores of night—
Tell me what your powerful name is in the depths of the night!”
Said 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 blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door—
Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door,
With such name as “Nevermore.”
I was really amazed by this awkward bird that spoke so clearly,
Even though its reply had little meaning—little relevance;
Because we all have to agree that no living person
Has ever been lucky enough to see a bird above their bedroom door—
A bird or beast on the carved bust above their bedroom door,
With a name like "Nevermore."
But the Raven, sitting lonely on that placid bust, spoke only
That one word, as if its 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.”
But the Raven, sitting alone on that calm bust, spoke only
That one word, as if its soul poured out with that one word
It didn't say anything else; it didn't even flutter a feather—
Until I barely muttered: “Other friends have left me before—
Tomorrow he will abandon me, just like my hopes have done 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.’”
Startled by the silence interrupted by such a fitting reply,
“Surely,” I stated, “what it says is all it knows and has,
Learned from some unfortunate master whom relentless Misfortune
Chased closely and even faster until his songs had one theme—
Until the mourning of his Hope carried that sad theme—
Of "Never—never again."
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.”
But the Raven still charming all my sad soul into smiling,
I quickly pulled a cushioned seat in front of the bird and the bust and the door;
Then, as I sank into the velvet, I began to connect
Thought to thought, wondering what this ominous bird from the past—
What this grim, awkward, creepy, skinny, and ominous bird from the past
Said by 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!
This I sat trying to figure out, but not a word came out
To the bird whose fiery eyes now burned into my heart;
This and more I sat pondering, with my head relaxed and leaning
On the cushion’s velvet lining that the lamp-light shone upon,
But whose velvet violet lining with the lamp-light shining on
She will press, ah, never again!
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.”
Then, I thought, the air got thicker, scented from an unseen censer
Swung by Seraphim whose footsteps tinkled on the plush floor.
“Wretch,” I shouted, “your God has given you—through these angels he has sent you
Respite—respite and nepenthe from your memories of Lenore!
Drink, oh drink this kind nepenthe and forget this lost Lenore!”
Said 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!” I said, “creature of darkness!—prophet still, whether you’re a bird or a demon!—
Did the Tempter send you, or did a storm wash you up here,
Lonely, yet fearless, on this bewitched land—
In this home haunted by terror—tell me honestly, I beg of you—
Is there—is there healing in Gilead?—tell me—tell me, I beg!”
Replied 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.”
“Prophet!” I said, “evil thing!—still a prophet, whether bird or devil!
By that Heaven that watches over us—by that God we both worship—
Tell this soul filled with sorrow if, in the distant paradise,
It will embrace a saintly maiden whom the angels call Lenore—
Embrace a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels call Lenore.”
The Raven said, “Nevermore.”
“Be that 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 has 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.”
“Whether you’re a sign of our goodbye, a bird or a demon!” I screamed, jumping up—
“Get back into the storm and the dark side of the night!
Leave no dark feather as a reminder of the lie your soul has told!
Leave my solitude untouched!—get away from the statue above my door!
Remove your beak from my heart, and take your shape away from my door!”
Said 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 shadows on the floor;
And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor
Shall be lifted—nevermore!
And the Raven, never leaving, is still sitting, still sitting
On the pale bust of Pallas right above my room door;
And his eyes have the look of a dreaming demon’s
And the lamp-light shining over him casts his shadows on the floor;
And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor
Will be lifted—never again!
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