The Philosophy of Composition

"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."

Not the least obeisance made he – not a moment stopped or stayed he, But with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door.

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 that placid bust, spoke only, etc.

"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 that is dreaming, And the lamplight 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.