The Raven:
A brief commentary, for a book club I belong to.
Edgar Allan Poe was an American
writer, poet, editor, and literary critic. Poe is best known for his poetry and
short stories, particularly his tales of mystery and the macabre. He is widely
regarded as a central figure of Romanticism in America, and he was one of the
country's earliest short story writers. He is also generally considered the
inventor of the detective fiction genre and is further credited with
contributing to the emerging genre of science fiction.
As
a youngster, I became obsessed with Poe, and read all his works. “The Raven,”
of course, was his most famous poem, and I learned it by heart. I also read one
or two biographies of the man, and those works helped me understand the
particularly tragic nature of his poetry. Born Edgar Poe, he was orphaned at
age two and raised by a couple named Allan, which was the source of his middle
name.
In
high school, I wrote a paper titled “The sources of The Raven and a note.” I
don’t remember much about the paper, but I do recall suggesting that the idea
of a speaking Raven came from a British poem of the day, in which the bird in
question said “Mortimer.” In retrospect, that seems funny.
When
he was in his early 20s, Poe married his 13-year-old cousin, Virginia Clemm, in
1836, and she died of tuberculosis in 1847 – two years after he published “The
Raven” to instant success. He died in Baltimore two years later, at age 40. The
cause of his death is unknown.
Without
exception, his poems are tragic tales of love lost. I’m not going to read all
of The Raven today. Just enough to give you a sense of how tragic life can be,
and how the bird became the symbol of death.
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 visitor,” 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 visitor
entreating entrance at my chamber door—
Some late visitor 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!
