 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."

