The Owl
1845
The Evening Mirror (New York), 17 February 1845
Once upon a midnight dreary, listening until I was weary,
To a ghostly guttural noise, which was a fellow-lodger’s snore,
All at once I heard a flapping, flapping, flapping, flapping, flapping,
Such a strange unearthly flapping, just outside my chamber door.
“Sure; there’s something there,” I muttered, “flapping at my chamber door—
Pshaw! ’tis fancy—nothing more.”
Then I lay a moment thinking, scarcely breathing, scarcely winking,
While the flapping still continued something softer than before,—
Thinking that, tho’ past denying what is said of fancy’s flying—
Flying often no one knows where—yet who ever thought before,—
Fancy’s wings, were such as could flip-flap against a chamber door!—
“Then it must be something more.”
Very well do I remember, it was in the cold December,
Tho’ of blaze, or coal, or ember, not the ghost I had in store,
I was over ears in sorrow;—vainly I had tried to borrow
Cash to last me thro’ to-morrow, and to pay my butcher’s score—
Just the matter of a dollar, and to pay my butcher’s score—
Only that, and nothing more.
And the silent, sad uncertain rustling of each cotton curtain
Thrilled me—filled me with fantastic fancies never felt before;—
I determined on retreating—and then listening stood, repeating
“’Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door;—
Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door;—
This is it, and nothing more.”
Then my courage soon grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,
“Sir,” said I, “or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;
But the fact is, there’s a lodger in the next room, and the codger
Keeps up such an everlasting, constant, and continual snore,
That I wasn’t 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,
And experiencing such a feeling as I never felt before;
But the silence was unbroken, and the darkness gave no token,—
Nought by any one was spoken—nought I heard except that snore,—
And the darkness seemed to echo back the everlasting snore—
May I hear it nevermore!
Then into my chamber turning, where my lamp was dimly burning,
Soon I thought I heard the flapping even louder than before;
“Surely,” said I, “surely that is something at my window lattice!
But perhaps it but a bat is—this mystery I will explore;—
If it cost me two-and-sixpence, I this mystery will explore;—
’Tis the wind, and nothing more.”
Open here I flung the shutter, when with many a flit and flutter
In there stepped a staring owl, one of the saintly days of yore;
But he made no o-be-i-sance, altho’ without leave or license
He directly perched himself upon a box above my chamber door—
Perched upon a bursted band-box just above my chamber door—
Perched, and sat, and nothing more.
“Sure, this is a strange proceeding, inconsistent with good breeding:—
Such a visitor as you I think I never had before;—
If to you it all the same is, please to tell me what your name is,
Likewise what on airth your game is, or, Sir Owl, there is the door;—
Tell me now, Sir Owl, your business and your name, or there’s the door”—
Quoth the owl then, “nevermore.”
Much I marvelled this ungainly bird to hear discourse so plainly,
Though ’tis true his answer sounded very like my neighbor’s snore;
And I couldn’t help a-thinking, as I saw the creature winking,
That no human being ever yet had seen above his door,
Bird or beast upon the bursted band-box o’er his chamber door,
With such a name as “nevermore.”
But the owl he looked so lonely, saying that word and that only,
That a thimble-full of whiskey I did speedily outpour
In a tea-cup on the table, which, as well as I was able,
I invited him to drink of, saying there was plenty more—
But the owl he shook his head, and threw the whiskey on the floor,
Plainly saying, “nevermore!”
“What! a temperance owl, by thunder! Well, indeed, ’tis no great wonder;
He had doubtless just now come from out the “Tabernacle” door.
Where he’s heard a temperance lecture, and has seen a fearful picture
Of the consequence of running up a whiskey-toddy score—
Of the evils brought by sixpence worth inside the pot-house door—
This it is, and nothing more.
Or this word so full of meaning is perhaps his only gleaning
In the field of human lore—doubtless his only stock and store,
Taught him by some drunken master, who by bailiffs and disaster
Aye was followed fast and faster, while the friends he did adjure,
Friends and cash, and hope which now he did no longer dare adjure,
Left him, and forevermore.”
For the purpose of beguiling a few moments, I sat smiling
At this grim, ungainly, ghostly-looking owl above my door;—
On a chair with one leg broken, while no syllable was spoken,
I say guessing and surmising what this ominous owl of yore,
What this funny, fat, and feathered creature that had been with Noah,
Meant in squeaking “Nevermore.”
But in vain was all my guessing, still no syllable expressing,
I determined on undressing, and to go to bed once more
When I thought I’d put a question for this reverend owl’s digestion.
And I said, “My friend, pray tell me, what is there for me in store?
For misfortune I am sick of—is there good for me in store?”
Quoth the owl still, “Nevermore!”
“Prophet!” said I, “who the devil sent you here to warn of evil?
Feathered prophet! I must ask thee still a single question more;
Tell me now, and tell me truly, and I will reward thee duly,
Will that individual in the next room never cease to snore?
Will he ever cease that ghostly, guttural, and unearthly snore?”
Quoth the owl still, “Nevermore!”
“Then get out!” I cried, upstarting; “be that word our sign of parting!
Get you back to where you came from, owl, and bother me no more;
For the fact is I am growing rather sleepy, and am throwing
Precious time away for nothing—so begone from off my door;
Take yourself from off the bursted band-box there above my door—
Vanish! and forevermore!”
But the owl still sits there thinking (as appeareth by his winking,
By his winking and his blinking) of the saintly days of yore,
When he was both young and sprightly, and he forth did wander nightly,
Seeking something good to eat upon some river’s lonely shore—
But then that was long ago, and in the saintly days of yore,
Past and gone, forevermore!
Return to the Quaint and Curious index for more pastiches and parodies of Edgar Allan Poe’s “The Raven”.
