Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there, wondering, fearing, Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning, Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter, Not the least obeisance made he, not a minute stopped or stayed he, 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, Much I marveled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly, But the Raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken, Of 'Never-nevermore.' But the Raven still beguiling my sad fancy into smiling, 30 40 50 60 Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird and bust and door; 70 What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore Thus I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing She shall press, ah, nevermore! Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer "Wretch!" I cried, "thy God hath lent thee,-by these angels he hath sent thee, Respite-respite and nepenthe2 from thy memories of Lenore! Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe, and forget this lost Lenore!" "Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil, prophet still, if bird or devil! Is there is there balm in Gilead?3-tell me-tell me, I implore!" "Prophet!" said I, thing of evil, prophet still, if bird or devil! "Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!" I shrieked, up-starting; 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; (1845) I He addresses himself. 2 nepenthe. A magic drink supposed to induce forgetfulness. 3 Cl. Jeremiah 8: 22: "Is there no balm in Gilead? is there no physician there?” 4 Aidenn. Eden. 80 90 100 Benignant Artemis, and not have dimmed Her polished altar with my virgin blood; I thought to have selected the white flow ers To please the Nymphs, and to have asked of each 30 By name, and with no sorrowful regret, Whether, since both my parents willed the change, I might at Hymen's feet bend my clipped brow ;2 And (after those who mind us girls the most) Adore our own Athena, that she would Regard me mildly with her azure eyes, But father! to see you no more, and see Your love, O father! go ere I am gone..." Gently he moved her off, and drew her back, Bending his lofty head far over hers, 40 And the dark depths of nature heaved and burst. He turned away; not far, but silent still. She now first shuddered; for in him, so nigh, So long a silence seemed the approach of death, And like it. Once again she raised her SIR HUMPHREY GILBERT HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW [After planting the first English colony in North America at St. John's, Newfoundland, on August 5, 1583, Sir Humphrey Gilbert found it necessary to return to England. He sailed with two ships, The Golden Hind and The Squirrel, and was lost with the latter vessel north of the Azores, about September 9, 1583. The Golden Hind returned to England safely; its report is the basis of Longfellow's version of Sir Humphrey's last known words. Longfellow supposes Campobello, on the New Brunswick coast, to have been the starting-point for the voyage.] 30 Children dear, was it yesterday To the little gray church on the windy hill. From the church came a murmur of folk at their prayers, But we stood without in the cold blowing airs. We climb'd on the graves, on the stones worn with rains, And we gazed up the aisle through the small leaded panes. She sate by the pillar; we saw her clear: "Margaret, hist! come quick, we are here! Dear heart," I said, "we are long alone; The sea grows stormy, the little ones moan. 80 Come away, children, call no more! Down, down, down! Down to the depths of the sea! She sits at her wheel in the humming town, Singing most joyfully. Hark what she sings: "O joy, O joy, 90 For the humming street, and the child with its toy! For the priest and the bell, and the holy well; For the wheel where I spun, And the blessed light of the sun!" Till the spindle drops from her hand, 70 We went up the beach, by the sandy down Where the sea-stocks bloom, to the whitewall'd town; |