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.”

Tapping sound. Imagined story: a visitor at door [WAU—wrong as usual].

     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.

I was distracted from attempts to escape the what-is, aka reality. [WAU]

     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.”

I repeat for no good reason the WAU visitor story.

     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.

I open the door. 'Nothing' apparently there. [WAU]

     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.

I imagine Lenore in the darkness. [WAU]

     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!”

Shut door. Hear tapping again, but at window. Tell WAU story about wind.

     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.

Open window. A raven comes in to sit above door.

     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.”

I WAU tell bird it is surely no craven for seeking shelter from the coming storm as cravens do.

     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 blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door—
Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door,
           With such name as “Nevermore.”

I WAU imagine the raven understood and answered a question because humans like to tell stories.

     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 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.”

I tell a story about other friends leaving me and WAU fancy the raven answers.

     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’.”

I make up a WAU story about how the bird learned a word.

     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.”

The bird seems ominous for some reason (to me).

     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 lamp-light gloated o’er,
But whose velvet-violet lining with the lamp-light gloating o’er,
          She shall press, ah, nevermore!

Lenore will press downwards nevermore, other than on the coffin, she being dead.

     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 Raven “Nevermore.”

Bird poops on floor, reminding me of Lenore.

     “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.”

I go off, barking mad, on the bird.

     “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.”

I ask bird another question, knowing what the answer will be.

     “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.”

I blame the bird because I don't like the answer.

     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;
And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor
           Shall be lifted—nevermore!

I imagine the bird is still sitting, oppressing me forever. It is all about me, which is why I suffer.

     Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and bleary,
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.
“Is it some visitor,” I muttered, “tapping at my chamber door?
           Only this and nothing more?”

Tapping sound. Question: what the—a visitor at door? Maybe, but I don't know.

     I seem to remember it was in the long nights of December;
And each separate dying ember wrought its light 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 maiden I pair-bonded with whom her parents named Lenore—
          Corporeally here for nevermore.

I was distracted from attempts to escape my self-absorbed sorrow for loosing my beloved Lenore.

     And the silken, sad, uncertain rustling of each purple curtain
Thrilled me—filled me with imagined 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?”

I repeat the visitor conjecture, knowing that I don't know what the tapping is.

     Presently my resolve 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 much more.

I open the door. Nothing there apart from a darkened world of wonders.

     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 words there spoken were, “Could it be Lenore?”
This I whispered, but then I heard only the sound of blowing wind—
           Merely this and nothing more.

I imagine Lenore in the darkness.

     Back into the chamber turning, all my imaginings within me burning,
Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before.
     “Ah,” said I, “surely there 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;—
           "Likely 'tis the wind and nothing more!”

I shut door. Hear tapping again, but at window. Tell story about wind because I like to tell stories.

     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 she; not a minute stopped or stayed she;
     Perhaps to escape the coming storm; perched above my chamber door—
Perched upon a bust of Pallas Athena, wise bird, no fool—
           Perched, and sat, and nothing more.

I open window. A raven comes in to sit above door.

     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 a 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.”

I tell the bird it is maybe a bit of a comfort loving craven for seeking shelter from another mere storm.

     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 blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door—
Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door,
           With such name as “Nevermore.”

I imagine the raven understood and answered a question.

     But the Raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only
That one word, as if her soul in that one word she did outpour.
     Nothing farther then she uttered—not a feather then she fluttered—
     Till I scarcely more than muttered “Other friends have flown before—
On the morrow she will leave me, as my Hopes have flown before.”
           Then the bird said “Nevermore.”

I tell a story about other friends who have left me, allas poor me. And how many have I left?

     Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,
“Likely,” said I, “what it utters is its only stock and store
     Perhaps learnt 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’.”

I make up a story about how the bird learned a word.

     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.”

Bird seems ominous for no reason, but my fancy tells me nothing about the bird; why?

     This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing
To the fowl whose steady eyes now turned to view my wondering gaze;
     This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining
     On the cushion’s velvet lining that the lamp-light gloated o’er,
But whose velvet-violet lining with the lamp-light gloating o’er,
          She shall press, ah, nevermore!

Lenore will press downwards in her coffin, but on the cushion, she being dead, shall press nevermore.

     Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer;
The Raven's gift whose tiny foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor.
     “Friend,” I cried, “I thank thee—for my geranium the storm hath sent thee.
     Pick up—pick up and put in the pot with water for the flowers of Lenore;
I wonder if, though in memory still green, still gardens my lost Lenore!”
           Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”

Bird poops on floor. Lenore left me her potted geranium to care for, so I fertilize and water it.

     “Prophet!” said I, “telling truth to Power!—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 Memory haunted—tell me truly, I implore—
Is there—is there balm in Gilead?—tell me—tell me, I implore!”
           Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”

The bird could be wrong, but seems annoyingly persistent in taking away my illusions—a blessing..

     “Ah so!” said I, “thing of verities!—prophet still, if bird or goddess!
By that Heaven that bends above us—by the Earth 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.”

I ask the bird another question, knowing the answer.

     “Tis so, as evidenced by the what-is, apart from which not a thing is!”—
“Get thee back tomorrow into Nature's embrace to find food and a mate!
     No need to leave a black plume as a token of what thy soul hath spoken!
     You will leave but our connection will be unbroken!—as with my lost Lenore!
Though we be forever interconnected, will I see thee or she again?”
           Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”

I'd rather know what-is than believe in comforting illusions.

     And the Raven, perching elsewhere, in memory still sits, still is sitting
On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;
     And her eyes have all the seeming of a goddess giving blessings,
     And the lamp-light o’er her streaming throws not her shadow on the floor;
Yet my soul from out that shadow that elsewhen lies floating on the floor
           Shall be severed—nevermore!

I imagine the bird is still with me forever. Love and understanding unites us.