The Raven

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 mortals 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 blest 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 further 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 lamplight gloated o'er,
But whose velvet violet lining with the lamplight gloating o'er,
She shall press, ah, nevermore!

Then methought the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer
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:
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 in 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 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!

Thumbs up!

You're pretty good.

Edgar Allen Poe

Oh, i'm sorry. It was Edgar Allen Poe! I've mislead you. Now i feel guilty... I COULD do something... This should be a poem thread, guys, so let's try it...

Let's make our very own rendition! We have to do it in order, and have it sound at least a little close. Here's the first part.

Once upon a 1950, a man sat waiting; very hefty
Pouring over books a plenty; written archaeology
His head was droopy, nearly tired, almost ready to retire
When someone rapped upon the door, the man awoke to say "No More!"
"I do not search no more, for items of legends and lore..."

Ah, he ached as he strived to remember,
And each step seemed heavy as he treaded to the door.
Seeing beyond his aching sorrow; - not looking to t'morrow
From a look outside to his horror - Suprised to see the number four -
For the fact of the moment left him speechless and more -
They wanted an Indy four.

And a certain flow of purplish hate had filled him,
It thrilled him, chilled him with fantastic terror never felt before;
So that now, to calm this certain fear, he repeated on,
"There cannot be an Indy four, I cannot take it anymore,
There will not be an Indy four, into my mind I cannot bore,
Twas the Last crusade, and nothing more..."

But from George there came a letter, offering him something better,
"Come," said George, "I have a new plan to placate the fans of yore;
We shall make another sequel, prequels have worked well before.
It is time for new adventures, with Han Solo, by the score!"
He is mad, this can't be so...

westford said:

But from George there came a letter, offering him something better,
"Come," said George, "I have a new plan to placate the fans of yore;
We shall make another sequel, prequels have worked well before.
It is time for new adventures, with Han Solo, by the score!"
He is mad, this can't be so...

Click to expand...

Westford, m'love, methinks you've missed your calling. Poet, through and through.

He slammed the door on George's face, for he should know that that's his place
Was he dreaming dreams, never thought before?
There was silence as therin, wondering if this was a dream
And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, "Oh, George?"
This he whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, "Oh, George!" -
Merely this, and nothing more.


His heart a-flare, he turned around, back to his seat, without a sound.
Again, the rapping, rapping on the chamber door
"Surely," said he, "surely it can't be, these people can't stop bugging me,
Let me see, for who this is, to who bugs me with Indy Four
Let me see, I do implore
'Tis the wind and nothing more."

[Edited by merancapeman on 12-04-2003 at 05:39 am]

Once again the door swung open, forcing him to grab the token,
The whip with which his character had been linked in days of yore;
In the door frame stood a great bird; feathers black, beak sharp and, absurd
As it sounded, came the raven, striding 'cross the office floor -
Pecking at the unmarked papers strewn across the office floor -
A sign perhaps to make the Four?

(Venture, you've not read the crap I came up with in my high school English classes! )

Indy found his need and now his oldness remained no more,
His eyes did shine, his jacket ragged and, just in time, the hat he wore.
"Though my heart be hard and heavy, thou," Said he, "I am revived,
Freindly crow, you have saved my career, ye who have busted through my door-
Tell me whom thy lordly owner is, he who sent you with the message you bore?"
Quoth the raven, "It was Steve"

<small>Somebody could change the name of this thread to, for example, "Indy poems" or something like that.</small>

Well, The Poem IS "The Raven", I'd Rather we finish the poem and have the complete revised version posted up.