West Point's Outcast, America's First Great Poet
March 06, 2020 |
| Edgar Allen Poe |
Edgar Allan Poe (1809–1849). The Raven
Vol. 42, pp. 1227-1230
of The Harvard Classics
(Poe expelled from
West Point, March 6, 1831.)
Edgar Allan Poe was
expelled from West Point and disinherited. So poor was he that when
his young wife lay dying, he could not afford a fire to warm her. The
weirdness and despair of "The Raven" is particularly
symbolic of his life.
The
Raven
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.’
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.
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.’
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.
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 chamber
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 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!’
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.
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 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.’
But the Raven, sitting
lonely on the 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—
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 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—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 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!’ 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!’ 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 bust above my door!
Take thy beak from out
my heart, and take thy form from off my door!’
Quoth
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!
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