This is a modern-English version of The Raven, originally written by Poe, Edgar Allan.
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and grammar—to ensure clarity for contemporary readers, while preserving the original spirit and nuance. If
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THE RAVEN
ByEDGAR ALLAN POE |
ILLUSTRATEDBy GUSTAVE DORÉ |
WITH COMMENT BY EDMUND C. STEDMAN
WITH COMMENT BY EDMUND C. STEDMAN
NEW YORK
NYC
HARPER & BROTHERS, PUBLISHERS, FRANKLIN SQUARE
1884
HARPER & BROTHERS, PUBLISHERS, FRANKLIN SQUARE
1884
Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1883, by
HARPER & BROTHERS,
In the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington.
Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1883, by
HARPER & BROTHERS,
In the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington.
All rights reserved.
All rights reserved.
Transcriber's Notes
In the List of Illustrations I restored a missing single quote after Lenore! as shown below:
In the List of Illustrations, I fixed a missing single quote after Lenore! as shown below:
"'Wretch,' I cried, 'thy God hath lent thee—by these angels he hath sent thee
Respite—respite and nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore!'"
"'Wretch,' I cried, 'your God has given you—through these angels he has sent you
Respite—respite and forgetfulness from your memories of Lenore!'"
The List of Illustrations uses 'visitor' where the poem and the actual illustration use 'visiter'.
The List of Illustrations uses 'visitor' where the poem and the actual illustration use 'visiter'.
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
With Names of Engravers
COMMENT ON THE POEM.
The secret of a poem, no less than a jest's prosperity, lies in the ear of him that hears it. Yield to its spell, accept the poet's mood: this, after all, is what the sages answer when you ask them of its value. Even though the poet himself, in his other mood, tell you that his art is but sleight of hand, his food enchanter's food, and offer to show you the trick of it,—believe him not. Wait for his prophetic hour; then give yourself to his passion, his joy or pain. "We are in Love's hand to-day!" sings Gautier, in Swinburne's buoyant paraphrase,—and from morn to sunset we are wafted on the violent sea: there is but one love, one May, one flowery strand. Love is eternal, all else unreal and put aside. The vision has an end, the scene changes; but we have gained something, the memory of a charm. As many poets, so many charms. There is the charm of Evanescence, that which lends to supreme beauty and grace an aureole of Pathos. Share with Landor his one "night of memories and of sighs" for Rose Aylmer, and you have this to the full.
The magic of a poem, just like the success of a joke, depends on the listener. Let yourself be captivated, embrace the poet's vibe: this is what wise people say when you ask about its worth. Even if the poet, in a different mood, claims his craft is just sleight of hand, his art mere trickery, and offers to reveal his secrets—don’t believe him. Wait for his moment of inspiration; then immerse yourself in his feelings, whether it's joy or sorrow. "We are in Love's hand today!" sings Gautier, in Swinburne's lively version—and from morning till evening we are swept away by the tumultuous sea: there's only one love, one May, one vibrant strand. Love is forever; everything else is fleeting and unimportant. The vision may fade, the scene may shift; but we gain something—the memory of a spell. For every poet, there’s a unique charm. There’s the charm of Evaporation, which gives exceptional beauty and grace a halo of Sadness. Feel with Landor his one "night of memories and sighs" for Rose Aylmer, and you'll experience this fully.
And now take the hand of a new-world minstrel, strayed from some proper habitat to that rude and dissonant America which, as Baudelaire saw, "was for Poe only a vast prison through which he ran, hither and thither, with the feverish agitation of a being created to breathe in a purer world," and where "his interior life, spiritual as a poet, spiritual even as a drunkard, was but one perpetual effort to escape the influence of this antipathetical atmosphere." Clasp the sensitive hand of a troubled singer dreeing thus his weird, and share with him the clime in which he found,—never throughout the day, always in the night,—if not the Atlantis whence he had wandered, at least a place of refuge from the bounds in which by day he was immured.
And now take the hand of a modern-day minstrel, lost from some familiar place to that harsh and chaotic America which, as Baudelaire observed, "was for Poe only a vast prison through which he ran, back and forth, with the restless energy of someone meant to thrive in a better world," and where "his inner life, spiritual as a poet, spiritual even as a drunkard, was just a constant struggle to break free from this opposing atmosphere." Hold the sensitive hand of a troubled singer weaving his tale, and share with him the environment he found—never during the day, always at night—if not the Atlantis he had left behind, at least a refuge from the confines in which he was trapped by day.
To one land only he has power to lead you, and for one night only can you share his dream. A tract of neither Earth nor Heaven: "No-man's-land," out of Space, out of Time. Here are the perturbed ones, through whose eyes, like those of the Cenci, the soul finds windows though the mind is dazed; here spirits, groping for the path which leads to Eternity, are halted and delayed. It is the limbo of "planetary souls," wherein are all moonlight uncertainties, all lost loves and illusions. Here some are fixed in trance, the only respite attainable; others
To one place only does he have the power to guide you, and for just one night can you share his dream. A realm that's neither Earth nor Heaven: "No-man's-land," beyond Space, beyond Time. Here are the troubled souls, whose eyes, like those of the Cenci, reveal the soul's windows even when the mind is confused; here, spirits searching for the path that leads to Eternity are stopped and held back. It’s the limbo of "planetary souls," filled with all the uncertainties of moonlight, all the lost loves and illusions. Some are frozen in a trance, the only escape they can find; others
To an offbeat tune:
while everywhere are
while everywhere is
Veiled shapes that begin and breathe out As they walk past the wanderer.
Such is the land, and for one night we enter it,—a night of astral phases and recurrent chimes. Its monodies are twelve poems, whose music strives to change yet ever is the same. One by one they sound, like the chiming of the brazen and ebony clock, in "The Masque of the Red Death," which made the waltzers pause with "disconcert and tremulousness and meditation," as often as the hour came round.
Such is the land, and for one night we enter it—a night of stars and ringing bells. Its single notes are twelve poems, whose melodies try to change but always remain the same. One by one they play, like the chiming of the brass and ebony clock in "The Masque of the Red Death," which made the dancers stop in "confusion and nervousness and thoughtfulness" every time the hour struck.
Of all these mystical cadences, the plaint of The Raven, vibrating through the portal, chiefly has impressed the outer world. What things go to the making of a poem,—and how true in this, as in most else, that race which named its bards "the makers"? A work is called out of the void. Where there was nothing, it remains,—a new creation, part of the treasure of mankind. And a few exceptional lyrics, more than others that are equally creative, compel us to think anew how bravely the poet's pen turns things unknown
Of all these mystical rhythms, the lament of The Raven, echoing through the doorway, has primarily captured the attention of the outside world. What elements contribute to the creation of a poem—and how true it is, like in many things, that the people who called their poets "the makers"? A piece emerges from nothingness. Where there was once silence, it now exists—a new creation, part of humanity's treasure. And a few standout verses, more than other equally creative ones, make us reconsider how boldly the poet's pen reveals the unknown.
Each seems without a prototype, yet all fascinate us with elements wrested from the shadow of the Supernatural. Now the highest imagination is concerned about the soul of things; it may or may not inspire the Fantasy that peoples with images the interlunar vague. Still, one of these lyrics, in its smaller way, affects us with a sense of uniqueness, as surely as the sublimer works of a supernatural cast,—Marlowe's "Faustus," the "Faust" of Goethe, "Manfred," or even those ethereal masterpieces, "The Tempest" and "A Midsummer Night's Dream." More than one, while otherwise unique, has some[10] burden or refrain which haunts the memory,—once heard, never forgotten, like the tone of a rarely used but distinctive organ-stop. Notable among them is Bürger's "Lenore," that ghostly and resonant ballad, the lure and foil of the translators. Few will deny that Coleridge's wondrous "Rime of the Ancient Mariner" stands at their very head. "Le Juif-Errant" would have claims, had Beranger been a greater poet; and, but for their remoteness from popular sympathy, "The Lady of Shalott" and "The Blessed Damozel" might be added to the list. It was given to Edgar Allan Poe to produce two lyrics, "The Bells" and The Raven, each of which, although perhaps of less beauty than those of Tennyson and Rossetti, is a unique. "Ulalume," while equally strange and imaginative, has not the universal quality that is a portion of our test.
Each seems without a model, yet all captivate us with elements pulled from the realm of the Supernatural. Now, the highest imagination focuses on the essence of things; it may or may not inspire the Fantasy that fills the vague space between the moons. Still, one of these poems, in its smaller way, impacts us with a sense of uniqueness, just like the greater works of a supernatural nature—Marlowe's "Faustus," Goethe's "Faust," "Manfred," or even those ethereal masterpieces, "The Tempest" and "A Midsummer Night's Dream." More than one, while otherwise distinct, has some[10] burden or refrain that lingers in the memory—once heard, never forgotten, much like the sound of a rarely used but unique organ stop. A standout among them is Bürger's "Lenore," that haunting and resonant ballad, both a temptation and a challenge for translators. Few would argue that Coleridge's remarkable "Rime of the Ancient Mariner" stands at the forefront. "Le Juif-Errant" would have claims if Beranger had been a greater poet; and, unless they are too distant from popular sympathy, "The Lady of Shalott" and "The Blessed Damozel" could be added to the list. It was Edgar Allan Poe who created two lyrics, "The Bells" and The Raven, each of which, while perhaps not as beautiful as those of Tennyson and Rossetti, is unique. "Ulalume," while just as strange and imaginative, lacks the universal quality that is part of our standard.
The Raven in sheer poetical constituents falls below such pieces as "The Haunted Palace," "The City in the Sea," "The Sleeper," and "Israfel." The whole of it would be exchanged, I suspect, by readers of a fastidious cast, for such passages as these:
The Raven in pure poetic elements is not as strong as works like "The Haunted Palace," "The City in the Sea," "The Sleeper," and "Israfel." I think that readers with a discerning taste would trade the whole thing for passages like these:
Resigned under the sky The sad waters lie.
· · · · · · ·
Up many, many a marvelous shrine Whose wreath-covered friezes intertwine The viola, the violet, and the vine.
· · · · · · ·
No swells indicate that winds might be On a distant happier sea—
No signs suggest that winds have been On seas less disturbingly calm.
It lacks the aerial melody of the poet whose heart-strings are a lute:
It doesn't have the light melody of a poet whose heartstrings are like a lute:
And the other listening stuff)
That Israfeli's flame Is due to that lyre By which he sits and sings—
The vibrating live wire Of those strange strings.
But The Raven, like "The Bells" and "Annabel Lee," commends itself to the many and the few. I have said elsewhere that Poe's rarer productions seemed to me "those in which there is the appearance, at least, of spontaneity,—in which he yields to his feelings, while dying falls and cadences most musical, most melancholy, come from him unawares." This is still my belief; and yet, upon a fresh study of this poem, it impresses me more than at any time since my boyhood. Close acquaintance tells in favor of every true work of art. Induce the man, who neither knows art nor cares for it, to examine some poem or painting, and how soon its force takes hold of him! In fact, he will overrate the relative value of the first good work by which his attention has been fairly caught. The Raven, also, has consistent qualities which even an expert must admire. In no other of its author's poems is the motive more palpably defined. "The Haunted Palace" is just as definite to the select reader, but Poe scarcely would have taken that subtle allegory for bald analysis. The Raven is wholly occupied with the author's typical theme—the irretrievable loss of an idolized and beautiful woman; but on other grounds, also, the public instinct is correct in thinking it his representative poem.
But The Raven, like "The Bells" and "Annabel Lee," appeals to both the many and the few. I've mentioned before that Poe's rarer works seem to me "those in which there is at least the appearance of spontaneity—in which he gives in to his feelings, while beautiful, melancholy rhythms come from him unexpectedly." I still believe this; yet, upon a fresh study of this poem, it impresses me more than ever since my youth. Familiarity benefits every true work of art. Get someone who knows nothing about art or doesn’t care about it to look at some poem or painting, and it won't be long before its impact grips him! In fact, he will likely overrate the relative value of the first good work that captures his attention. The Raven also has consistent qualities that even an expert must admire. In none of his other poems is the theme more clearly defined. "The Haunted Palace" is just as clear to the discerning reader, but Poe likely wouldn’t have taken that subtle allegory for straightforward analysis. The Raven is entirely focused on the author’s typical theme—the irreversible loss of an idolized and beautiful woman; however, for other reasons, the public is right in considering it his representative poem.
A man of genius usually gains a footing with the success of some one effort, and this is not always his greatest. Recognition is the more instant for having been postponed. He does not acquire it, like a miser's fortune, coin after coin, but "not at all or all in all." And thus with other ambitions: the courtier, soldier, actor,—whatever their parts,—each counts his triumph from some lucky stroke. Poe's Raven, despite augury, was for him "the bird that made the breeze to blow." The poet settled in New-York, in the winter of 1844-'45, finding work upon Willis's paper, "The Evening Mirror," and eking out his income by contributions elsewhere. For six years he had been an active writer, and enjoyed a professional reputation; was held in both respect and misdoubt, and was at no loss for his share of the ill-paid journalism of that day. He also had done much of his very best work,—such tales as "Ligeia" and "The Fall of the House of Usher," (the latter containing that mystical counterpart, in verse, of Elihu Vedder's "A Lost Mind,") such analytic feats as "The Gold Bug" and "The Mystery of Marie Roget." He had made proselytes abroad, and gained a lasting hold upon the French mind. He had learned his own power and weakness, and was at his prime, and not without a certain reputation. But he had written nothing that was on the tongue of everybody. To rare and delicate work some popular touch must be added to capture the general audience of one's own time.
A genius often gets their break from the success of a single effort, which isn’t always their best. Recognition comes more quickly when it’s been delayed. They don’t gather it like a miser's hoard, accumulating it bit by bit, but rather "not at all or all in all." This is true for other ambitions as well: whether a courtier, soldier, or actor, each counts their success from some fortunate moment. Poe's Raven, despite everything, was for him "the bird that made the breeze to blow." The poet settled in New York during the winter of 1844-1845, finding work with Willis's paper, "The Evening Mirror," and supplementing his income with contributions elsewhere. For six years, he had been an active writer with a professional reputation, regarded with both respect and skepticism, and was never short of his share of the poorly paid journalism of that time. He had also produced some of his best work—stories like "Ligeia" and "The Fall of the House of Usher" (the latter containing that mystical counterpart in verse to Elihu Vedder's "A Lost Mind"), along with analytical pieces like "The Gold Bug" and "The Mystery of Marie Roget." He had garnered followers overseas and won a lasting influence on the French intellect. He had recognized his own strengths and weaknesses, was at his peak, and had a certain level of reputation. However, he hadn't yet written anything that everyone was talking about. To make rare and intricate work popular, it needs some accessible touch to capture the general audience of its time.
Through the industry of Poe's successive biographers, the hit made by The Raven has become an oft-told tale. The poet's young wife, Virginia, was fading before his eyes, but lingered for another year within death's shadow. The long, low chamber in the house near the Bloomingdale Road is as[11] famous as the room where Rouget de l'Isle composed the Marseillaise. All have heard that the poem, signed "Quarles," appeared in the "American Review," with a pseudo-editorial comment on its form; that Poe received ten dollars for it; that Willis, the kindest and least envious of fashionable arbiters, reprinted it with a eulogy that instantly made it town-talk. All doubt of its authorship was dispelled when Poe recited it himself at a literary gathering, and for a time he was the most marked of American authors. The hit stimulated and encouraged him. Like another and prouder satirist, he too found "something of summer" even "in the hum of insects." Sorrowfully enough, but three years elapsed,—a period of influence, pride, anguish, yet always of imaginative or critical labor,—before the final defeat, before the curtain dropped on a life that for him was in truth a tragedy, and he yielded to "the Conqueror Worm."
Through the efforts of Poe's many biographers, the success of The Raven has become a well-known story. The poet's young wife, Virginia, was fading before his eyes, but she lingered for another year in the shadow of death. The long, low room in the house near Bloomingdale Road is as[11] famous as the room where Rouget de l'Isle wrote the Marseillaise. Everyone knows that the poem, credited to "Quarles," was published in the "American Review," along with a fake editorial comment on its style; that Poe was paid ten dollars for it; and that Willis, the kindest and least envious of fashionable critics, reprinted it with a tribute that quickly made it the talk of the town. Any doubts about its authorship were cleared when Poe read it himself at a literary gathering, and for a time, he became the most recognized American author. The success fueled and inspired him. Like another, more boastful satirist, he too found "something of summer" even "in the hum of insects." Sadly, though, three years passed—an era of influence, pride, anguish, but always filled with imaginative or critical work—before the final defeat, before the curtain fell on a life that was truly a tragedy for him, and he succumbed to "the Conqueror Worm."
"The American Review: A Whig Journal" was a creditable magazine for the time, double-columned, printed on good paper with clear type, and illustrated by mezzotint portraits. Amid much matter below the present standard, it contained some that any editor would be glad to receive. The initial volume, for 1845, has articles by Horace Greeley, Donald Mitchell, Walter Whitman, Marsh, Tuckerman, and Whipple. Ralph Hoyt's quaint poem, "Old," appeared in this volume. And here are three lyrics by Poe: "The City in the Sea," "The Valley of Unrest," and The Raven. Two of these were built up,—such was his way,—from earlier studies, but the last-named came out as if freshly composed, and almost as we have it now. The statement that it was not afterward revised is erroneous. Eleven trifling changes from the magazine-text appear in The Raven and Other Poems, 1845, a book which the poet shortly felt encouraged to offer the public. These are mostly changes of punctuation, or of single words, the latter kind made to heighten the effect of alliteration. In Mr. Lang's pretty edition of Poe's verse, brought out in the "Parchment Library," he has shown the instinct of a scholar, and has done wisely, in going back to the text in the volume just mentioned, as given in the London issue of 1846. The "standard" Griswold collection of the poet's works abounds with errors. These have been repeated by later editors, who also have made errors of their own. But the text of The Raven, owing to the requests made to the author for manuscript copies, was still farther revised by him; in fact, he printed it in Richmond, just before his death, with the poetic substitution of "seraphim whose foot-falls" for "angels whose faint foot-falls," in the fourteenth stanza. Our present text, therefore, while substantially that of 1845, is somewhat modified by the poet's later reading, and is, I think, the most correct and effective version of this single poem. The most radical change from the earliest version appeared, however, in the volume in 1845; the eleventh stanza originally having contained these lines, faulty in rhyme and otherwise a blemish on the poem:
"The American Review: A Whig Journal" was a respectable magazine for its time, featuring double columns, printed on quality paper with clear type, and illustrated with mezzotint portraits. Despite much of its content falling below today's standards, it included pieces any editor would be eager to publish. The first volume, from 1845, has articles by Horace Greeley, Donald Mitchell, Walt Whitman, Marsh, Tuckerman, and Whipple. Ralph Hoyt's quirky poem, "Old," appeared in this volume. Additionally, it contains three poems by Poe: "The City in the Sea," "The Valley of Unrest," and The Raven. Two of these were developed from earlier works, as was his style, but the last one came out as if it had just been written, nearly as we know it today. The claim that it wasn’t revised later is incorrect. Eleven minor changes from the magazine text are found in The Raven and Other Poems, 1845, a book which the poet soon felt confident enough to share with the public. These changes are mostly punctuation shifts or individual word changes, made to enhance the alliteration. In Mr. Lang's beautiful edition of Poe's poetry, released in the "Parchment Library," he has shown the instincts of a scholar and made a wise decision to revert to the text from the previously mentioned volume, as published in the London edition of 1846. The "standard" Griswold collection of the poet's works is full of errors. These have been repeated by later editors, who also introduced their own mistakes. However, the text of The Raven, due to requests for manuscript copies made to the author, underwent further revisions; in fact, he printed it in Richmond just before his death, substituting "seraphim whose foot-falls" for "angels whose faint foot-falls" in the fourteenth stanza. Our current text, then, while essentially that of 1845, has been slightly modified by the poet's later revisions, and I believe it to be the most accurate and powerful version of this single poem. The most significant change from the earliest version appeared in the 1845 volume; the eleventh stanza originally included lines that were flawed in rhyme and detracted from the poem:
"That sad answer, 'Nevermore!'"
It would be well if other, and famous, poets could be as sure of making their changes always improvements. Poe constantly rehandled his scanty show of verse, and usually bettered it. The Raven was the first of the few poems which he nearly brought to completion before printing. It may be that those who care for poetry lost little by his death. Fluent in prose, he never wrote verse for the sake of making a poem. When a refrain of image haunted him, the lyric that resulted was the inspiration, as he himself said, of a passion, not of a purpose. This was at intervals so rare as almost to justify the Fairfield theory that each was the product of a nervous crisis.
It would be great if other well-known poets could always be as confident that their changes are improvements. Poe constantly revised his limited collection of poems, usually making them better. *The Raven* was one of the few poems he nearly completed before publishing. It’s possible that those who appreciate poetry didn't lose much with his death. Although he was skilled in prose, he never wrote poetry just to create a poem. When a recurring image struck him, the lyric that came from it was, as he himself stated, the result of a passion, not a goal. These moments were so rare that they almost support the Fairfield theory that each was born out of a nervous breakdown.
What, then, gave the poet his clue to The Raven? From what misty foundation did it rise slowly to a music slowly breathed? As usual, more than one thing went to the building of so notable a poem. Considering the longer sermons often preached on brief and less suggestive texts, I hope not to be blamed for this discussion of a single lyric,—especially one which an artist like Doré has made the subject of prodigal illustration. Until recently I had supposed that this piece, and a few which its author composed after its appearance, were exceptional in not having grown from germs in his boyish verse. But Mr. Fearing Gill has shown me some unpublished stanzas by Poe, written in his eighteenth year, and entitled, "The Demon of the Fire." The manuscript appears to be in the poet's early handwriting, and its genuineness is vouched for by the family in whose possession it has remained for half a century. Besides the plainest germs of "The Bells" and "The Haunted Palace" it contains a few lines somewhat suggestive of the opening and close of The Raven. As to the rhythm of our poem, a comparison of dates indicates that this was influenced by the rhythm of "Lady Geraldine's Courtship." Poe was one of the first to honor Miss Barrett's genius; he inscribed his collected poems to her as "the noblest of her sex," and was in[12] sympathy with her lyrical method. The lines from her love-poem,
What, then, provided the poet with his inspiration for The Raven? From what unclear beginnings did it gradually develop into a melody that was softly expressed? As is often the case, multiple factors contributed to the creation of such a remarkable poem. Considering the lengthy sermons frequently delivered on short and less evocative texts, I hope I won’t be criticized for discussing a single lyric—especially one that an artist like Doré has lavishly illustrated. Until recently, I believed that this piece, along with a few others that the author created after its release, was unique in not having originated from themes found in his youthful poetry. However, Mr. Fearing Gill has shown me some unpublished stanzas by Poe, written when he was eighteen, titled "The Demon of the Fire." The manuscript seems to be in the poet's early handwriting, and its authenticity has been confirmed by the family that has held it for fifty years. In addition to the earliest forms of "The Bells" and "The Haunted Palace," it contains a few lines that are somewhat reminiscent of the beginning and end of The Raven. Regarding the rhythm of our poem, comparing the dates suggests that it was influenced by the rhythm of "Lady Geraldine's Courtship." Poe was one of the first to recognize Miss Barrett's talent; he dedicated his collected poems to her as "the noblest of her sex" and shared her lyrical style. The lines from her love poem,
found an echo in these:
found a resonance in these:
"Excited me—filled me with amazing fears I had never experienced before."
Here Poe assumed a privilege for which he roughly censured Longfellow, and which no one ever sought on his own premises without swift detection and chastisement. In melody and stanzaic form, we shall see that the two poems are not unlike, but in motive they are totally distinct. The generous poetess felt nothing but the true originality of the poet. "This vivid writing!" she exclaimed,—"this power which is felt!... Our great poet, Mr. Browning, author of 'Paracelsus,' &c., is enthusiastic in his admiration of the rhythm." Mr. Ingram, after referring to "Lady Geraldine," cleverly points out another source from which Poe may have caught an impulse. In 1843, Albert Pike, the half-Greek, half-frontiersman, poet of Arkansas, had printed in "The New Mirror," for which Poe then was writing, some verses entitled "Isadore," but since revised by the author and called "The Widowed Heart." I select from Mr. Pike's revision the following stanza, of which the main features correspond with the original version:
Here, Poe took a liberty he harshly criticized Longfellow for, and which no one ever attempted on his own turf without being quickly caught and punished. In terms of melody and stanzaic structure, we will see that the two poems are quite similar, but when it comes to their underlying motives, they are completely different. The generous poetess recognized nothing but the true originality of the poet. "This vivid writing!" she exclaimed, "this power that is felt!... Our great poet, Mr. Browning, author of 'Paracelsus,' etc., is enthusiastic about the rhythm." Mr. Ingram, after mentioning "Lady Geraldine," cleverly highlights another source from which Poe might have drawn inspiration. In 1843, Albert Pike, a half-Greek, half-frontiersman and poet from Arkansas, published some verses called "Isadore" in "The New Mirror," where Poe was writing at the time, but the author later revised them and titled them "The Widowed Heart." I choose the following stanza from Mr. Pike's revision, which closely resembles the original version:
The bright sun shines boldly on the unclean floor;
The mockingbird is still sitting and singing, oh, what a sad tune!
For my heart is like an autumn cloud that spills with rain; "You are lost to me forever, Isadore!"
Here we have a prolonged measure, a similarity of refrain, and the introduction of a bird whose song enhances sorrow. There are other trails which may be followed by the curious; notably, a passage which Mr. Ingram selects from Poe's final review of "Barnaby Rudge":
Here we have an extended section, a repeated chorus, and the introduction of a bird whose song deepens the sadness. There are other paths that curious minds can explore; in particular, a passage that Mr. Ingram picks from Poe's last review of "Barnaby Rudge":
"The raven, too, * * * might have been made, more than we now see it, a portion of the conception of the fantastic Barnaby. * * * Its character might have performed, in regard to that of the idiot, much the same part as does, in music, the accompaniment in respect to the air."
"The raven, too, * * * could have been, more than we see it now, a part of the imaginative vision of Barnaby. * * * Its role could have related to that of the fool much like an accompaniment relates to the melody in music."
Nevertheless, after pointing out these germs and resemblances, the value of this poem still is found in its originality. The progressive music, the scenic detail and contrasted light and shade,—above all, the spiritual passion of the nocturn, make it the work of an informing genius. As for the gruesome bird, he is unlike all the other ravens of his clan, from the "twa corbies" and "three ravens" of the balladists to Barnaby's rumpled "Grip." Here is no semblance of the cawing rook that haunts ancestral turrets and treads the field of heraldry; no boding phantom of which Tickell sang that, when,
Nevertheless, after highlighting these influences and similarities, the true value of this poem lies in its originality. The evolving music, vivid imagery, and contrasting light and shadow—most importantly, the deep emotional intensity of the nocturn—showcase the work of a brilliant mind. As for the creepy bird, he stands apart from all the other ravens in his family, from the "twa corbies" and "three ravens" of the ballads to Barnaby's disheveled "Grip." There’s no resemblance to the cawing rook that haunts old castles and walks the fields of heraldry; no ominous spirit like the one Tickell sang about, that when,
The raven flapped his wing, The heartbroken young woman knew all too well The serious ominous sound.
Poe's raven is a distinct conception; the incarnation of a mourner's agony and hopelessness; a sable embodied Memory, the abiding chronicler of doom, a type of the Irreparable. Escaped across the Styx, from "the Night's Plutonian shore," he seems the imaged soul of the questioner himself,—of him who can not, will not, quaff the kind nepenthe, because the memory of Lenore is all that is left him, and with the surcease of his sorrow even that would be put aside.
Poe's raven is a unique idea; it represents a mourner's pain and despair; a dark embodiment of Memory, the constant narrator of doom, a symbol of the Irreversible. Having crossed the Styx, from "the Night's Plutonian shore," it appears to be the visual embodiment of the questioner himself—of someone who cannot, and will not, drink the soothing potion, because the memory of Lenore is all he has left, and with the end of his sorrow, even that would be forgotten.
The Raven also may be taken as a representative poem of its author, for its exemplification of all his notions of what a poem should be. These are found in his essays on "The Poetic Principle," "The Rationale of Verse," and "The Philosophy of Composition." Poe declared that "in Music, perhaps, the soul most nearly attains the great end for which, when inspired by the Poetic Sentiment, it struggles—the creation of supernal Beauty.... Verse cannot be better designated than as an inferior or less capable music"; but again, verse which is really the "Poetry of Words" is "The Rhythmical Creation of Beauty,"—this and nothing more. The tone of the highest Beauty is one of Sadness. The most melancholy of topics is Death. This must be allied to Beauty. "The death, then, of a beautiful woman is, unquestionably, the most poetical topic in the world,—and equally is it beyond doubt that the lips best suited for such a topic are those of a bereaved lover." These last expressions are quoted from Poe's whimsical analysis of this very poem, but they indicate precisely the general range of his verse. The climax of "The Bells" is the muffled monotone of ghouls, who glory in weighing down the human heart. "Lenore," The Raven, "The Sleeper," "To One in Paradise," and "Ulalume" form a tenebrose symphony,—and "Annabel Lee," written last of all, shows that one theme possessed him to the end. Again, these are all nothing if not musical, and some are touched with that quality of the Fantastic which awakes the sense of awe, and adds a new fear to agony itself. Through all is dimly outlined, beneath a shadowy pall, the poet's ideal love,—so often half-portrayed elsewhere,—the entombed wife of Usher, the Lady Ligeia, in[13] truth the counterpart of his own nature. I suppose that an artist's love for one "in the form" never can wholly rival his devotion to some ideal. The woman near him must exercise her spells, be all by turns and nothing long, charm him with infinite variety, or be content to forego a share of his allegiance. He must be lured by the Unattainable, and this is ever just beyond him in his passion for creative art.
The Raven can also be seen as a representative poem of its author, showcasing all his ideas about what a poem should be. These ideas are found in his essays on "The Poetic Principle," "The Rationale of Verse," and "The Philosophy of Composition." Poe said that "in music, perhaps, the soul comes closest to achieving the ultimate goal for which it strives when inspired by the Poetic Sentiment—the creation of extraordinary beauty.... Verse can be described as a lesser or less capable form of music"; yet, verse that is truly the "Poetry of Words" is "The Rhythmical Creation of Beauty,"—nothing more, nothing less. The tone of the highest beauty is characterized by sadness. The most mournful topic is death. This must be connected to beauty. "The death, then, of a beautiful woman is undeniably the most poetic topic in the world,—and it is also clear that the lips best suited for discussing this topic are those of a grieving lover." These last expressions are taken from Poe's quirky analysis of this very poem, but they accurately reflect the general scope of his work. The peak of "The Bells" is the muffled monotone of spirits, who take pleasure in weighing down the human heart. "Lenore," The Raven, "The Sleeper," "To One in Paradise," and "Ulalume" create a dark symphony,—and "Annabel Lee," written last, shows that this theme consumed him until the end. Furthermore, these works are nothing if not musical, with some possessing a touch of the fantastic that evokes a sense of awe and adds a new layer of fear to suffering. Throughout all of this is a dim outline, under a shadowy shroud, of the poet's ideal love,—often half-illustrated elsewhere,—the entombed wife of Usher, the Lady Ligeia, in[13] truth a reflection of his own nature. I believe that an artist's love for someone "in the form" can never fully compete with his devotion to some ideal. The woman beside him must cast her spells, be everything all at once and nothing for long, enchant him with an endless variety, or be willing to give up part of his loyalty. He must be drawn to the unattainable, and this is always just out of reach in his passion for creative art.
Poe, like Hawthorne, came in with the decline of the Romantic school, and none delighted more than he to laugh at its calamity. Yet his heart was with the romancers and their Oriental or Gothic effects. His invention, so rich in the prose tales, seemed to desert him when he wrote verse; and his judgment told him that long romantic poems depend more upon incident than inspiration,—and that, to utter the poetry of romance, lyrics would suffice. Hence his theory, clearly fitted to his own limitations, that "a 'long poem' is a flat contradiction in terms." The components of The Raven are few and simple: a man, a bird, and the phantasmal memory at a woman. But the piece affords a fine display of romantic material. What have we? The midnight; the shadowy chamber with its tomes of forgotten lore; the student,—a modern Hieronymus; the raven's tap on the casement; the wintry night and dying fire; the silken wind-swept hangings; the dreams and vague mistrust of the echoing darkness; the black, uncanny bird upon the pallid bust; the accessories of violet velvet and the gloating lamp. All this stage effect of situation, light, color, sound, is purely romantic, and even melodramatic, but of a poetic quality that melodrama rarely exhibits, and thoroughly reflective of the poet's "eternal passion, eternal pain."
Poe, like Hawthorne, arrived during the decline of the Romantic movement, and none relished its downfall more than he did. Yet his heart remained with the storytellers and their Eastern or Gothic influences. His creativity, so abundant in prose, seemed to abandon him when he turned to poetry; he believed that lengthy romantic poems relied more on plot than on true inspiration—and that lyrics could effectively convey the essence of romance. Thus, he established a theory that "a 'long poem' is a flat contradiction in terms," which reflected his own limitations. The elements of The Raven are few and straightforward: a man, a bird, and a ghostly memory of a woman. But the poem presents a stunning array of romantic themes. What do we have? Midnight; a dimly lit room filled with forgotten books; the student—a modern Hieronymus; the raven tapping on the window; the cold night and dying fire; the silky, wind-blown drapes; the dreams and vague unease in the echoing darkness; the black, eerie bird perched on the pale bust; and the accents of purple velvet and the glowing lamp. All these theatrical elements of setting, light, color, and sound are purely romantic, even melodramatic, yet carry a poetic depth that melodrama seldom achieves, thoroughly reflecting the poet's "eternal passion, eternal pain."
The rhythmical structure of The Raven was sure to make an impression. Rhyme, alliteration, the burden, the stanzaic form, were devised with singular adroitness. Doubtless the poet was struck with the aptness of Miss Barrett's musical trochaics, in "eights," and especially by the arrangement adopted near the close of "Lady Geraldine":
The rhythmic structure of The Raven was bound to leave an impact. Rhyme, alliteration, the refrain, and the stanza format were crafted with unique skill. It's clear the poet was inspired by Miss Barrett's melodic trochaics in "eights," and especially by the arrangement used near the end of "Lady Geraldine":
Beneath that serene white forehead, are you ever burning hot? "Over the barren sand desert of my heart and my broken life?"
His artistic introduction of a third rhyme in both the second and fourth lines, and the addition of a fifth line and a final refrain, made the stanza of The Raven. The persistent alliteration seems to come without effort, and often the rhymes within lines are seductive; while the refrain or burden dominates the whole work. Here also he had profited by Miss Barrett's study of ballads and romaunts in her own and other tongues. A "refrain" is the lure wherewith a poet or a musician holds the wandering ear,—the recurrent longing of Nature for the initial strain. I have always admired the beautiful refrains of the English songstress,—"The Nightingales, the Nightingales," "Margret, Margret," "My Heart and I," "Toll slowly," "The River floweth on," "Pan, Pan is dead," etc. She also employed what I term the Repetend, in the use of which Poe has excelled all poets since Coleridge thus revived it:
His artistic use of a third rhyme in both the second and fourth lines, along with the addition of a fifth line and a final refrain, created the stanza of The Raven. The ongoing alliteration seems effortless, and often the rhymes within lines are captivating; while the refrain or repeated line dominates the entire work. Here too, he benefited from Miss Barrett's exploration of ballads and stories in her own and other languages. A "refrain" is the hook that a poet or musician uses to capture the wandering ear—the recurring desire of Nature for the original melody. I have always admired the beautiful refrains of the English songstress—"The Nightingales, the Nightingales," "Margret, Margret," "My Heart and I," "Toll slowly," "The River flows on," "Pan, Pan is dead," etc. She also used what I call the Repetend, in which Poe has outshined all poets since Coleridge revived it:
Their beauty might proclaim:
A spring of love flowed from my heart,
And I blessed them unknowingly: Of course, my kind saint felt sorry for me,
And I blessed them unknowingly.
Poe created the fifth line of his stanza for the magic of the repetend. He relied upon it to the uttermost in a few later poems,—"Lenore," "Annabel Lee," "Ulalume," and "For Annie." It gained a wild and melancholy music, I have thought, from the "sweet influences," of the Afric burdens and repetends that were sung to him in childhood, attuning with their native melody the voice of our Southern poet.
Poe crafted the fifth line of his stanza to capture the magic of repetition. He leaned heavily on this technique in a few later poems—"Lenore," "Annabel Lee," "Ulalume," and "For Annie." I believe it gained a wild and sorrowful sound from the "sweet influences" of African songs and refrains he heard in his childhood, blending their native melodies with the voice of our Southern poet.
"The Philosophy of Composition," his analysis of The Raven, is a technical dissection of its method and structure. Neither his avowal of cold-blooded artifice, nor his subsequent avowal to friends that an exposure of this artifice was only another of his intellectual hoaxes, need be wholly credited. If he had designed the complete work in advance, he scarcely would have made so harsh a prelude of rattle-pan rhymes to the delicious melody of the second stanza,—not even upon his theory of the fantastic. Of course an artist, having perfected a work, sees, like the first Artist, that it is good, and sees why it is good. A subsequent analysis, coupled with a disavowal of any sacred fire, readily enough may be made. My belief is that the first conception and rough draft of this poem came as inspiration always comes; that its author then saw how it might be perfected, giving it the final touches described in his chapter on Composition, and that the latter, therefore, is neither wholly false nor wholly true. The harm of such analysis is that it tempts a novice to fancy that artificial processes can supersede imagination. The impulse of genius is to guard the secrets of its creative hour. Glimpses obtained of the toil, the baffled experiments, which precede a triumph, as in the sketch-work of Hawthorne recently brought to light, afford priceless instruction and encouragement to the sincere artist. But one[14] who voluntarily exposes his Muse to the gaze of all comers should recall the fate of King Candaules.
"The Philosophy of Composition," his analysis of The Raven, is a detailed breakdown of its method and structure. Neither his claim of being a cold, calculated artist nor his later confession to friends that revealing this calculation was just another one of his intellectual tricks should be taken at face value. If he had planned the entire work from the beginning, he wouldn't have started with such a jarring mix of rhymes before the lovely melody of the second stanza—not even based on his theory of the fantastic. Naturally, an artist who has perfected a work sees, like the original Creator, that it's good and understands why it's good. A later analysis, combined with a denial of any divine inspiration, can be done quite easily. I believe the initial idea and rough draft of this poem came as inspiration normally does; that its author then recognized how to improve it, adding the final touches discussed in his chapter on Composition, which makes that chapter neither completely false nor completely true. The danger of such analysis is that it encourages newcomers to think that artificial techniques can replace imagination. The instinct of genius is to protect the secrets of its creative moments. Insights into the struggles and failed attempts that lead to success, like the sketches of Hawthorne recently revealed, provide invaluable lessons and motivation for the genuine artist. But one[14] who willingly shows their Muse to the public should remember the fate of King Candaules.
The world still thinks of Poe as a "luckless man of genius." I recently heard him mentioned as "one whom everybody seems chartered to misrepresent, decry or slander." But it seems to me that his ill-luck ended with his pitiable death, and that since then his defence has been persistent, and his fame of as steadfast growth as a suffering and gifted author could pray for in his hopeful hour. Griswold's decrial and slander turned the current in his favor. Critics and biographers have come forward with successive refutations, with tributes to his character, with new editions of his works. His own letters and the minute incidents of his career are before us; the record, good and bad, is widely known. No appellor has received more tender and forgiving judgement. His mishaps in life belonged to his region and period, perchance still more to his own infirmity of will. Doubtless his environment was not one to guard a fine-grained, ill-balanced nature from perils without and within. His strongest will, to be lord of himself, gained for him "that heritage of woe." He confessed himself the bird's unhappy master, the stricken sufferer of this poem. But his was a full share of that dramatic temper which exults in the presage of its own doom. There is a delight in playing one's high part: we are all gladiators, crying Ave Imperator! To quote Burke's matter of fact: "In grief the pleasure is still uppermost, and the affliction we suffer has no resemblance to absolute pain, which is always odious, and which we endeavor to shake off as soon as possible." Poe went farther, and was an artist even in the tragedy of his career. If, according to his own belief, sadness and the vanishing of beauty are the highest poetic themes, and poetic feeling the keenest earthly pleasure, then the sorrow and darkness of his broken life were not without their frequent compensation.
The world still sees Poe as a "unlucky man of genius." I recently heard him referred to as "someone everyone seems allowed to misrepresent, criticize, or slander." But it seems to me that his bad luck ended with his tragic death, and since then, his defense has been consistent, and his reputation has grown as steadily as a suffering and talented author could hope for in his best moments. Griswold's criticism and slander turned the tide in his favor. Critics and biographers have come forward with repeated counterarguments, tributes to his character, and new editions of his works. His own letters and the small details of his life are available to us; both the good and the bad are widely known. No one has received a kinder and more forgiving judgment. His life’s struggles belonged to his time and circumstances, perhaps even more to his own weaknesses. Certainly, his environment wasn’t one that protected a sensitive, unbalanced nature from outside and internal dangers. His strongest desire, to be in control of himself, earned him "that legacy of sorrow." He admitted he was the unfortunate master of this fate, the wounded sufferer of this poem. But he had a strong dose of that dramatic spirit that revels in foreseeing its own demise. There’s a thrill in playing one’s grand role: we are all gladiators, shouting Ave Imperator! To quote Burke's straightforward observation: "In grief, the pleasure is still primary, and the suffering we endure doesn’t resemble absolute pain, which is always unpleasant, and that we try to shake off as quickly as we can." Poe took it further and was an artist even in the tragedy of his life. If, according to his own belief, sadness and the loss of beauty are the highest poetic themes, and poetic feeling is the most intense earthly pleasure, then the sorrow and darkness of his shattered life were not without their moments of compensation.
In the following pages, we have a fresh example of an artist's genius characterizing his interpretation of a famous poem. Gustave Doré, the last work of whose pencil is before us, was not the painter, or even the draughtsman, for realists demanding truth of tone, figure, and perfection. Such matters concerned him less than to make shape and distance, light and shade, assist his purpose,—which was to excite the soul, the imagination, of the looker on. This he did by arousing our sense of awe, through marvellous and often sublime conceptions of things unutterable and full of gloom or glory. It is well said that if his works were not great paintings, as pictures they are great indeed. As a "literary artist," and such he was, his force was in direct ratio with the dramatic invention of his author, with the brave audacities of the spirit that kindled his own. Hence his success with Rabelais, with "Le Juif-Errant," "Les Contes Drolatiques," and "Don Quixote," and hence, conversely, his failure to express the beauty of Tennyson's Idyls, of "Il Paradiso," of the Hebrew pastorals, and other texts requiring exaltation, or sweetness and repose. He was a born master of the grotesque, and by a special insight could portray the spectres of a haunted brain. We see objects as his personages saw them, and with the very eyes of the Wandering Jew, the bewildered Don, or the goldsmith's daughter whose fancy so magnifies the King in the shop on the Pont-au-Change. It was in the nature of things that he should be attracted to each masterpiece of verse or prose that I have termed unique. The lower kingdoms were called into his service; his rocks, trees and mountains, the sky itself, are animate with motive and diablerie. Had he lived to illustrate Shakespeare, we should have seen a remarkable treatment of Caliban, the Witches, the storm in "Lear"; but doubtless should have questioned his ideals of Imogen or Miranda. Beauty pure and simple, and the perfect excellence thereof, he rarely seemed to comprehend.
In the following pages, we present a fresh example of an artist's genius in his interpretation of a famous poem. Gustave Doré, whose final work we have before us, was not a traditional painter or even a draftsman focused on realism, truth in tone, and perfection. He was less concerned with those details and more focused on how shape and distance, light and shade, could serve his purpose—to stir the soul and imagination of the viewer. He achieved this by evoking awe through marvelous and often sublime portrayals of things that are indescribable and filled with darkness or glory. It's often said that while his works may not be considered great paintings in a traditional sense, they are indeed outstanding pictures. As a "literary artist," which he indeed was, his effectiveness was directly related to the dramatic creativity of his author, as well as the bold audacity of the spirit that inspired him. This explains his success with Rabelais, "Le Juif-Errant," "Les Contes Drolatiques," and "Don Quixote," as well as, conversely, his struggle to capture the beauty of Tennyson's Idyls, "Il Paradiso," the Hebrew pastorals, and other texts that called for exaltation, sweetness, and tranquility. He was a natural master of the grotesque and, with a unique insight, was able to portray the visions of a troubled mind. We see things as his characters did, through the eyes of the Wandering Jew, the confused Don, or the goldsmith's daughter, whose imagination expands her vision of the King in the shop on the Pont-au-Change. It was only natural that he would be drawn to each masterpiece of verse or prose that I have labeled as unique. The lower realms of nature were enlisted in his service; his rocks, trees, and mountains, as well as the sky itself, are filled with life and mischievous spirit. Had he lived to illustrate Shakespeare, we would have witnessed a remarkable portrayal of Caliban, the Witches, and the storm in "Lear"; however, we might have questioned his interpretations of Imogen or Miranda. He seldom seemed to grasp pure and simple beauty, or its perfect excellence.
Yet there is beauty in his designs for the "Ancient Mariner," unreal as they are, and a consecutiveness rare in a series by Doré. The Rime afforded him a prolonged story, with many shiftings of the scene. In The Raven sound and color preserve their monotone and we have no change of place or occasion. What is the result? Doré proffers a series of variations upon the theme as he conceived it, "the enigma of death and the hallucination of an inconsolable soul." In some of these drawings his faults are evident; others reveal his powerful originality, and the best qualities in which, as a draughtsman, he stood alone. Plainly there was something in common between the working moods of Poe and Doré. This would appear more clearly had the latter tried his hand upon the "Tales of the Grotesque and Arabesque." Both resorted often to the elf-land of fantasy and romance. In melodramatic feats they both, through their command of the supernatural, avoided the danger-line between the ideal and the absurd. Poe was the truer worshipper of the Beautiful; his love for it was a consecrating passion, and herein he parts company with his illustrator. Poet or artist, Death at last transfigures all: within the shadow of his sable harbinger, Vedder's symbolic crayon aptly sets them face to face, but enfolds them with the mantle of immortal wisdom and power. An American woman has wrought the image of a star-eyed Genius with the final torch, the exquisite semblance of one whose vision beholds, but whose lips may not utter, the mysteries of a land beyond "the door of a legended tomb."
Yet there is beauty in his designs for the "Ancient Mariner," even though they are unrealistic, and there's a continuity that’s rare in a series by Doré. The Rime gave him a lengthy story with many scene changes. In The Raven, sound and color stay monotone, and we have no change in setting or occasion. What does this lead to? Doré offers a series of variations on the theme as he interpreted it, "the enigma of death and the hallucination of an inconsolable soul." In some of these drawings, his flaws are clear; others showcase his strong originality and the best qualities that made him stand out as a draughtsman. Clearly, there was a shared working mood between Poe and Doré. This would become even more evident had Doré attempted the "Tales of the Grotesque and Arabesque." Both often ventured into the fantasy land of imagination and romance. In their melodramatic feats, they both, through their control of the supernatural, skillfully sidestepped the thin line between the ideal and the absurd. Poe was the truer admirer of the Beautiful; his love for it was a sacred passion, and this is where he diverges from his illustrator. Whether poet or artist, Death ultimately transforms everything: under the shadow of his dark harbinger, Vedder's symbolic drawing fittingly presents them face to face, yet wraps them in the cloak of eternal wisdom and power. An American woman has created the image of a star-eyed Genius with the final torch, an exquisite likeness of one who can see but cannot speak the mysteries of a land beyond "the door of a legended tomb."
Edmund C. Stedman.
Edmund C. Stedman.
THE POEM.
THE RAVEN.
As I dozed off, I suddenly heard a tapping, As if someone were softly knocking, knocking at my room door.
"There's some visitor," I mumbled, "knocking at my door—
Just this, and nothing more.
And each individual dying ember cast its shadow on the floor.
I eagerly looked forward to tomorrow:—I had fruitlessly tried to borrow From my books, an end to sorrow—sorrow for the lost Lenore—
For the rare and beautiful maiden that the angels call Lenore—
Nameless here forever.
"This is it, and nothing more."
And so quietly you came knocking, knocking at my room door,
"That I could hardly believe I heard you"—then I opened the door wide;— Darkness there, and nothing else.
And the only word spoken there was the whispered word, "Lenore!"
I whispered this, and an echo softly replied, "Lenore!"
Just this and nothing more.
"Surely," I said, "that must be something at my window." Let me check what’s going on there and investigate this mystery—
Let my heart be quiet for a moment and explore this mystery;—
"It’s just the wind and nothing more!"
Sitting on a statue of Pallas above my bedroom door—
Perched and sat, and nothing more.
Chilling and ancient Raven roaming from the nightly shore,—
"Tell me what your majestic name is on the Night's Plutonian shore!"
Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."
Bird or beast on the carved bust above his door, With a name like "Nevermore."
Tomorrow, he will leave me, just like my hopes have already disappeared. Then the bird said, "Nevermore."
"Surely," I said, "what it says is all it has to offer,
Taken from an unfortunate master whom cruel Misfortune Followed quickly and followed even quicker until his songs had one theme—
Until the mournful songs of his Hope carried that heavy weight Of 'Never—never again.'"
I rolled a cushioned seat in front of the bird, the bust, and the door; Then, as the velvet sank, I started connecting Fancy upon fancy, pondering what this foreboding bird from the past—
What this dark, awkward, creepy, thin, and foreboding bird from the past Intended in croaking "Nevermore."
"Drink, oh drink this kind potion, and forget this lost Lenore!"
Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."
Whether the Tempter sent you, or whether a storm brought you to this shore, Empty yet unafraid, on this magical desert land—
In this house haunted by horror—please tell me the truth, I beg—
Is there—is there a cure in Gilead?—please tell me—tell me, I beg you!"
Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."
By the Heaven above us—by the God we both worship—
Tell this soul weighed down with sorrow if, in the faraway paradise,
It will hold a holy maiden that the angels call Lenore—
"Hold onto a unique and beautiful young woman whom the angels call Lenore." Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."
Leave no dark mark as a reminder of the lie your soul has told!
Leave my loneliness intact!—take down the bust above my door!
"Take your beak out of my heart, and take your form off my door!"
Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."
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"Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary, Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore." |
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"Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December, And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor." |
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"Eagerly I wished the morrow;—vainly I had sought to borrow From my books surcease of sorrow—sorrow for the lost Lenore." |
| "Sorrow for the lost Lenore." |
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"For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore— "Nameless here forever." |
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"'T is some visiter entreating entrance at my chamber door— Some late visiter entreating entrance at my chamber door." |
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"Here I opened wide the door;— "Just darkness, and nothing more." |
| "Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before." |
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"'Surely,' said I, 'surely that is something at my window lattice; Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore.'" |
| "Open here I flung the shutter." |
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. . . . . . . . "A stately Raven of the saintly days of yore. Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he." |
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"Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door— "Perched, sat, and nothing more." |
| "Wandering from the Nightly shore." |
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"Till I scarcely more than muttered, 'Other friends have flown before— On the morrow he will leave me, as my hopes have flown before.'" |
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"Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking Fancy unto fancy." |
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"But whose velvet violet lining with the lamplight gloating o'er "She will press, ah, never again!" |
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"'Wretch,' I cried, 'thy God hath lent thee—by these angels he hath sent thee Respite—respite and nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore!'" |
| "On this home by Horror haunted." |
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. . . . . . . . . "Tell me truly, I implore— Is there—is there balm in Gilead?—tell me—tell me, I implore!" |
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"Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn, It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore." |
| "'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!'" |
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"And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor "Shall be lifted—never again!" |
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