Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered,
weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came
As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my
chamber door -
'"Tis some visiter", I muttered, "tapping at my chamber
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 sought
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
Thrilled me - filled me with fantastic terrors never
So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood
"Tis some visiter entreating entrance at my chamber
Some late visiter entreating entrance at my chamber
This it is and nothing more."
Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no
"Sir", said I, "or Madam, truly your forgiveness
But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came
And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my
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
Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared
to dream before;
But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave
And the only word there spoken was the whispered
This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the
Merely this and nothing more.
Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me
Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than
"Surely", said I, "surely that is somet