 This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information, please visit LibriVox.org. Today's reading The Raven by Edgar Allan Poe, read by Chris Scoringe. 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 at my chamber door. It is 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. Eagily I wished the morrow, vainly I had sought to borrow, from my box, 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, distill the beating of my heart, I stood repeating, it is some visitor in treating entrance at my chamber door. Some late visitor in treating 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 there at 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 their step a stately raven of the saintly days of yore. Not the least abesience made he, not an instant stopped or stately, but with mine of lord and lady perched above my chamber door, perched upon a bust of palace 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 in the night's plutonium shore. Quoth the raven. Nevermore. Much I marveled at 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 a bird above his chamber door, bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door, with such a name as nevermore. But the raven sitting lonely on that placid bust spoke only that one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour. Nothing further than he uttered, not a feather than he fluttered. Till I scarcely more than muttered, other friends have flown before. On the morrow he will leave me, as my hopes has flown before. Then the bird said, nevermore. Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken, doubtless said I what it uttered is its only stock and store. Caught from some unhappy master, whom unmerciful disaster followed fast and followed faster till his song's one burden bore, till the dirges of his hope the melancholy burden bore of never, nevermore. But the raven still beguiling all my sad soul into smiling, straight I wheeled a cushion 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 lamplight gloated her. But whose velvet violet lining with the lamplight gloated her. She shall press, ah, nevermore. Then, me thought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censor, swung by Seraphim whose footfalls 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. Quoth, oh, quoth this kind nepenthe, and forget this lost Lenore. Quoth the raven. Nevermore. Profit, said I, thing of evil, profit 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 barming Gilead? Tell me, tell me I implore. Quoth the raven. Nevermore. Profit, said I, thing of evil, profit 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 Aden, it shall clasp a saintly 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 plutonium 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 palace just above my chamber door. And his eyes have all the seeming of a demons that is dreaming, and the lamplight or 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.