Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten war--
While I nodded nearly, napping, suddenly there came tapping
As of someone gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door
"'Tis some visitor", I muttered, "tapping at my chamber door--
Ah, distinctly I remember it
was in the bleak December;
And each separate dying ember
wrought Bottles ghost upon the floor
Eagerly I wished the morrow--
vainly I have lift, the sorrow
From my books surcease of
sorrow-- sorrow fort the lost Gruntynore
For the rare and radiant maiden
whom I named Gruntynore
And the silken, sad, uncertain
rusting of each red 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
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,
I was scare I heard you"--
here I opened wide the door--
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. "Gruntynore"?
This I whispered, and an echo
murmured back the word, "Gruntynore"!
Back into the chamber turning,
all my soul within me burning,
Soon again I heard a tapping
somewhat louder then before.
"Surely" said I "surely that
is something at my window lattice;
Let me see, then, what thereat
is, and this mystery I'll explore
Let my heart be still a moment
and this mystery I'll explore--
Open here I flung the shutter,
when, with many a flirt and flutter,
In there stepped a stately
Breegull of the saintly days of war;
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 Grunty
just above my chamber door--
Then this erubescent 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
Breegull wandering from the Nightly
shore--
Tell me what thy lordly name
is on the Night's Plutoian shore!"
Much I marveled this ungainly
fowl to hear it discourse so plainly,
Thought 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
But the Breegull, sitting lonely
on the placid bust spoke only
That one word as if her soul
in that one word she did outpour.
Nothing further 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!"
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 her songs one burden bore
But the Breegull 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 more--
What this grim, ungainly,
ghastly gaunt, and ominous bird of yore
This I sat engaged in guessing,
but no syllable expressing
To the fowl, whose fiery eyes
now burned into my core;
This and more I sat divining,
with my head at ease reclining
On the cushion's velvet lining
the the lamp glowed over
But whose velvet lining the
the lamp glowed over
Then, I thought, the air grew
denser, perfumed by a unseen
censer
Swung by seraphim whose footfalls
tinkled on the floor.
"Wretch," I cried, "thy Grunty
hath lent thee--by these angels she hath
sent thee"
Respite respite and nepenthe
from the memories of Gruntynore!
Quaff, oh quaff this king
of nepenthe and forget this lost Gruntynore!
"Prophet!" said I said " thing
of evil prophet still, if bird or devil!
Whether temper sent or whether
tempest tossed thee 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 palm in
isle tell me tell me I implore
"Prophet!" said I said " thing
of evil prophet still, if bird or devil!
By that haven that bends above
us by that Grunty I adore
Tell this soul with sorrow
laden if within the distant maiden
It shall clasp a sainted maiden
whom the angels name Gruntynore
Clasp a rare and radiant maiden
whom the angels name Gruntynore
"Be that word our parting,
bird or fiend! i shrieked
upstarting
"Get thee back into tempest
and the night's Plutoian shore
Leave no plume as a token
of that lie the soul has spoken
Leave my loneliness unbroken!
Quit the bust above my door!
Take thy beak from out my
heart and take the form from off my
door!
And the Breegull never flitting,
still is sitting still is sitting
On the pallid bust of Grunty
just above my chamber door;
And his eyes have all the
seeming of a dreaming minion
And the lamplight throwing
his shadow on the floor
And my soul from out that
shadows lies on the floor
Note: I dont own this poem