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 someone gently rapping, wrapping 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 an oblique 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 named Lenore,

nameless here forevermore.

And the silken sat on certain 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 there no longer.

Sir, said I, or madam, truly your forgiveness I implore, but the fact is I was napping, and 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.

...