The Raven Quotes

Nevermore, quoth the raven.

Is there balm in Gilead?, quoth the raven.

Prophet! said I, thing of evil!—prophet still, if bird or devil!

Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night’s Plutonian shore!

Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn, It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore.

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!

Take thy form from off my door!

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.’

Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered weak and weary

Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing

But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token

Darkness there, and nothing more.

And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor

Shall be lifted—nevermore!

In there stepped a stately raven of the saintly days of yore

Not the least obeisance made he; not an instant stopped or stayed he;

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!

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!

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!

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!

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!

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!

Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!