The History of China - Special: The Raven

Episode Date: October 22, 2024

By Edgar Allen Poe [1809-1849] Published: 1845 Happy Halloween 2024! Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices

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The Raven, by Edgar Allan Poe quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore. While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping, as of someone 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 book's surcease of sorrow. Sorrow for the lost Lenore, for the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore, nameless, here, forevermore. 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! It is this, 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 more till 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 mummered back the word, Lenore this I whispered and an echo mumbered 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 someone 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 mean of lord or lady Perched upon 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 at war. 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. Oath the Raven, nevermore. Much I marveled 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 blessed with seeing 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 the placid bust, spoke only that one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour. Nothing farther 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 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 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, never more. 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 led thee by the 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 of bird or devil, Whether tempter sent or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,

Desolate yet all undaunted on this desert land enchanted, On his 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, evermore. Prophet, I said, 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 that distant Aden, it shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore, clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore, both 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 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 palace 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. Hi everyone, this is Scott. If you want to learn about the world's oldest civilizations, find out how they were rediscovered, follow the story of Mark Antony and Cleopatra's descendants over ten generations, or take a deep dive into the Iron Age or the Hellenistic era, then check out the Ancient World Podcast.

Available on all podcasting platforms or go to ancientworldpodcast.com. That's the Ancient World Podcast.