Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,
O'er a tome of ancient fables, etched with lore and olden tales,
Suddenly there came a scratching, a soft sound like gentle lapping,
As of someone gently tapping, tapping at my chamber rails.
"’Tis some visitor," I muttered, "tapping at my chamber rails—
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 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 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 feline of the saintly days of yore;
Not the least obeisance made she; not a minute stopped or stayed she;
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 cat 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 feline wandering from the Nightly shore—
Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night’s Plutonian shore!"
Quoth the feline, "Evermore."
Much I marvelled this ungainly cat 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 cat above his chamber door—
Cat or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door,
With such name as "Evermore."
But the feline, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only
That one word, as if its soul in that one word it did outpour.
Nothing farther then it uttered—not a feather then it 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 cat said, "Evermore."
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 'Ever—evermore.'"
But the feline still beguiling all my sad soul into smiling,
Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bust and cat and door;
Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking
Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous cat of yore—
What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous cat of yore
Meant in croaking "Evermore."
This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing
To the feline 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 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!
Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe and forget this lost Lenore!"
Quoth the feline, "Evermore."
"Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil!—prophet still, if cat 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 feline, "Evermore."
"Be that word our sign of parting, cat 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 form from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!"
Quoth the feline, "Evermore."
And the feline, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;
And its 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!
Midnight Whispers a poem about a cat inspired by the Raven By Edgar Allan Poe was written by "Inspire Bot" ChatGPT under the guidance of Steven M. Tilley.