--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
'Twas the night before a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary, Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore—when all thro' the house
Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse;
The stockings were hung by the chimney with care,
In hopes that St. Nicholas soon would be there;
While I nodded, nearly napping suddenly there came a tapping. As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.
The children were nestled all snug in their beds,
While visions of sugar plums danc'd in their heads,
And Mama in her 'kerchief, and I in my cap,
Had just settled our brains for a long winter's nap —
“’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.
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,
—here I opened wide the door;—
Darkness there and nothing more.
When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter,
I sprang from the bed to see what was the matter.
Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,
The moon on the breast of the new fallen snow,
Gave the luster of mid-day to objects below;
When, what to my wondering eyes should appear,
But a miniature sleigh, and eight tiny reindeer,
With a stately old driver, of the saintly days of yore;
so lively and quick,
I knew in a moment it must be St. Nick.
Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he;
More rapid than eagles his coursers they came,
And he whistled, and shouted, and call'd them by name:
"Now! Dasher, now! Dancer, now! Prancer and Vixen,
"On! Comet, on! Cupid, on! Donder and Blitzen;
"To the top of the porch! To the top of the wall!
"Now dash away! Dash away! Dash away all!"
As dry leaves that before the wild hurricane fly,
When they meet with an obstacle, mount to the sky;
So up to the house-top the coursers they flew,
Perched, and sat, and nothing more.
And then in a twinkling, I heard on the roof
The prancing and pawing of each little hoof.
As I drew in my head, and was turning around,
Down the chimney St. Nicholas came with a bound:
But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door—
Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door—
He was dress'd all in fur, from his head to his foot,
And his clothes were all tarnish'd with ashes and soot;
beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,
A bundle of toys was flung on his back,
And he look'd like a peddler just opening his pack:
“Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou,” I said, “art sure no craven,
Ghastly grim and ancient elf wandering from the Nightly shore—
Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night’s Plutonian shore!”
His eyes — how they twinkled! His dimples: how merry,
His cheeks were like roses, his nose like a cherry;
His droll little mouth was drawn up like a bow,
And the beard of his chin was as white as the snow;
Quoth St. Nicholas “Nevermore.”
The stump of a pipe he held tight in his teeth,
And the smoke it encircled his head like a wreath;
sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only
That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.
He had a broad face, and a little round belly
Nothing farther then he uttered.
when laugh'd, like a bowl full of jelly he fluttered
Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking
Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous elf of yore—
What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, chubby, and ominous jolly old elf of yore
Meant in croaking “Nevermore.
This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing
To the elf whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom’s core;
I laugh'd when I saw him in spite of myself;
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
Quoth St. Nicholas “Nevermore.”
“Prophet!” said I, “thing of evil!—prophet still, if elf 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!”
He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work,
And fill'd all the stockings; then turn'd with a jerk,
Quoth St. Nicholas “Nevermore.”
“Be that word our sign of parting, elf or fiend!” I shrieked, upstarting—
“Get thee back into the tempest and the Night’s Plutonian shore!
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!
And laying his finger aside of his nose
And giving a nod, up the chimney he rose.
He sprung to his sleigh, to his team gave a whistle,
And away they all flew, like the down of a thistle:
But I heard him exclaim, ere he drove out of sight —
Quoth St. Nicholas "Nevermore a good night."
