The Murkrow

The Murkrow

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 someone gently rapping, rapping at the center's door.

"'Tis some Trainer," I then muttered, "Tapping at the center's 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 strong and radiant trainer whom Gym leaders name Lenore –

Nameless here for evermore.

And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtain

Thrilled me, chilled me – filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;

So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating:

"'Tis some trainer that's entreating entrance at the center's door –

Some late trainer is entreating entrance at the center's 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 the center's 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 mortals 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 center 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 the 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 Murkrow of the saintly days of yore.

Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed here,

But with mien of lord or lady, perched above the center's door­–

Perched upon a stone Poke ball just above the center's door–

Perched, and sat, and nothing more.

Then this black Pokemon 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 Murkrow wandering from the Nightly shore –

Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night's Mewtwo-onian shore!"

Quoth the Murkrow, "Nevermore."

Much I marveled this black Pokemon to hear discourse so plainly,

Though his answer little meaning – little relevancy bore;

For we cannot help agreeing that no trainer human being

Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above a center's door–

Pokemon upon the sculpted ball above a center's door,

With such name as "Nevermore".

But the Murkrow, sitting lonely on that Poke ball spoke only

That one word, as if his soul in that one word did he 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."

Quoth the Murkrow, "Nevermore."

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"

But the Murkrow still beguiling all my sad soul into smiling,

Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird and ball and door;

Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking

Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this bird of yore–

What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt and ominous bird of yore,

Meant in croaking "Nevermore".

This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing

To the Pokemon whose 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 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 Murkrow, "Nevermore."

"Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil! – prophet still, if bird or devil! –

Whether Darkrai sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,

Desolate, yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted–

On this home by Darkrai haunted – tell me truly, I implore–

Is there – is there balm in Gilead? – tell me – tell me, I implore!"

Quoth the Murkrow, "Nevermore."

"Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil! – prophet still, if bird or devil!

By that heaven that bends above us – by Arceus, who we both adore –

Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn,

It shall clasp a sainted trainer whom Gym leaders name Lenore –

Clasp a strong and radiant trainer whom Gym leaders name Lenore."

Quoth the Murkrow, "Nevermore."

"Be that word our sign of parting, Poke fiend!" I shrieked, upstarting –

"Get thee back into the tempest and the Night's Mewtwo-onian shore!
Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul has spoken!

Leave my loneliness unbroken! – quit the ball above the door!

Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off this door!"
Quoth the Murkrow, "Nevermore."

And the Murkrow, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting

On the sculpted poke ball just above the center's door;

And his eyes have all the seeming of a Darkrai that is dreaming

And the lamp-light o'er him throws his shadow on the floor;

And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor,

Shall be lifted – nevermore!