Ah, distincly I remember it was in the bleak December, And each seperate dying ember wrought it's Haunter upon the floor. Eagerly I wished the morrow;-wainly I had sought to borrow From my books surceased or sorrow-sorrow for the lost Misty-ore- For the rare and red-headed maiden whom the angels named Misty-ore- Nameless here forever more.
And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtain Trilled 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, "Trainer," said I, "or Lass, 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.
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, "Misty-ore!" This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, "Misty-ore!" Merely this and nothing more.
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 gust of a Pidgey and nothing more."
Open here I flung the shutter, when, whith many a flirt and flutter, In there stepped a wild Spearow 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.
Then this ebony bird belunging my sad face into smiling, By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore, "Through thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou," I said, "art sure no craven, Ghastly grim and ancient Spearow wandering from the Nightly shore- Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Arbok's Plutonian shore!" Quoth the Spearow, "Nevermore."
Much I marveled this intrained Pokemon to hear discourse so plainly, Though its answer little meaning-little relevancy bore; For we cannot help aggreing that no living human being Ever yet was blessed with seeing a Pokemon above his chamber door- A Pokemon upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door, With such a name as "Nevermore."
But the Spearow, sitting lonely on that 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 that muttered: "Other friends have flown before- On the morrow he will leave me as my Hopes have flown before." Then the bird said, "Nevermore."
Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken, "Doubtless," said I, "what it utters is 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 Spearow still beguiling all my sad soul into smiling, Straight I wheeled a cushoned seat in front of the Pokemon and bust and door; Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this omunous Pokemon of yore Meant in croaking, "Nevermore."
This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing To the Spearow who's fiery eyes now burning into my bosom's core; This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining On the cushon's velvet lining that the lamp-light gloated o'er, But who's velvet voilet lining with the lamp-light gloating o're She shall press, ah, nevermore!
Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer Swung by Seraphim whose foot-falls rang on the tufted floor. "Wretch," I cried, "thy Pokegod hath lent thee-by these angels he hath sent thee Respite-respite and nepenthe from thy memories of Misty-ore! Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe and forget this lost Misty-ore!" Quoth the Spearow, "Nevermore."
"Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil!-prophet still, if Pokemon or devil!- Whether Mewtwo sent, or whether temptest 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 Spearow, "Nevermore."
"Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil!-prophit still if Pokemon or devil! By that heaven that bends above us-by that Pokegod we both adore- Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distance Aidenn, It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels names Misty-ore- Clasp a rare and red-headed maiden whom the angels named Misty-ore." Quoth the Spearow, "Nevermore."
"Be that word our sign of parting, Pokemon or fiend!" I shrieked, upstarting- "Get thee back into the tempest and the Arbok's Plutonian shore! Leave no black pume 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 off my door! Quoth the Spearow, "Nevermore."
And the Spearow, 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 Gengar that is dreaming, And the lamp-light o'er him streaming down throws his shadow on the floor; And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor Shall be lifted-nevermore!
