The Raven
July 10, 2002
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Homework (Assignment: take a poem or prose from another author and rewrite it in the opposite form, with the opposite mood)
The Raven
Prose Version
by Edna
Long ago I was sitting in my room. It was about midnight and I had been up reading ancient literature. The old books were making me sleepy even though the breeze through the window was nice and cool. Suddenly at my door there came a tapping, and I thought to myself, "Someone must want to visit."
I remember that it was a lovely December, and the fire in the hearth was bright and cheery, casting wonderful shadows on the floor. I was waiting for morning's light, and was reading the old texts thinking about my poor Lenore. I remember that she had looked so lovely by the glow of the dawn; it's a shame that she shall never see them again. Ah, a beautiful and wonderful memory.
I then remembered that someone had knocked at my door. And with my purple curtains rustling , I wondered who could be visiting at this time of night. It was a glorious feeling to know that someone cared enough to see how I was doing.
I got up the energy to get out of my very comfy chair, I really didn't want to answer the door, but that tapping came again. Someone knew I was home, and it felt so good to be thought about. I called out on my way to the door, "Hello? I can barely hear you, I am terribly sorry that I am taking so long, I will be there shortly." I opened the door. . . and no one was there.
I looked down the hallway. But saw no one. I thought that maybe it was just some kids pranking. I wondered about it for a while. Then I thought about the old texts and about ghosts who come back to visit lost loves. And I thought "Surely this could happen to me!" And so I whispered her name, "Lenore?" And the pesky spirits in the hall murmured it back to me. I smiled at the pranks of the unseen and shut my chamber door.
I turned back into my room, chuckling the while. I started to go back to my chair when I heard the tapping again, a bit louder. This time though, it was coming from my window and I thought to myself, "Now who would have climbed up onto my balcony?" I started toward the window thinking, "Surely this is just the wind." But my heart was racing, and my blood was pounding at this interesting bit of sound.
When I got to the windows I threw open the shutters. And stepped back gawking at what had just step onto the sill. There, standing regally, was a raven. Just like the ones in my ancient books! He did not bob, bend or curtsy, but he did fly to the relief of Pallas above my door. There he perched looking down upon me with wise eyes. And that's what he did. . . he just sat there.
But as he was just sitting there, and I started to get annoyed. I looked at it in wonder, and felt the need to speak to it as though it would understand me. "You are a long way from home, bird." And then a limerick poped into my head form one of those old books, so I said, "Tell me what the lordly name is on the Night's Plutonian shore." And much to my surprise the raven said, "Nevermore."
I was thunderstruck. I couldn't believe that this very bird had spoken! Although it's answer meant little to me, I was thrilled at the thought that no one else had ever had a bird named "Nevermore" perched atop the sculpture over his or her door. Or any stately raven for that matter.
I was so excited about it speaking that I tried to get it to say other words as well. But it did not. He said that one word only, as if it were everything to him. As if the very word embodied his soul. After that first word he spoke, he did not move a feather, just sat as if part of the bust above my door. I thought about it, and said to myself, "Ah, he is just here for the night, he will leave me in the morning." And amazingly the bird spoke again, "Nevermore."
Needless to say I was thrilled to hear it speak again, but I was hoping that he would say more. "I am sure," I said to myself, "That it only says what some old master of his said a thousand times. This poor thing was probably owned by some poor man who went through countless disasters time and again, so that now all he can say is 'never-nevermore.'"
Still, the bird was terribly interesting. I had never known a raven to say anything. So I pulled up a chair and plopped myself down into its wonderful cushions. As I sat there I started thinking about all my old texts and linking stories together from them. I was hoping that in those tomes might be the key to why this particular bird says "Nevermore."
But, unfortunately I sat there for quite some time and didn't come up with a single reason as to why this bird, whose eyes glow ever so majestically in the firelight, would ever say such a thing. I sat with my head thrown back on the cushions, pondering this very odd question.
After a while I thought that the air was growing heavier. I could swear that I could smell perfume, like the stuff they use at church. I looked up to the bird and said, "You have been sent by the angels, haven't you? You were sent to remind me of my poor Lenore. I have forgotten her." And the raven said, "Nevermore!"
"Are you bird or demon?" I said, "Were you sent here on purpose or tossed here by the wind? Since you are here, I might as well ask of you, and please I must know, will I be happy in Gilead? I need to know!" And, of course, all the bird said was, "Nevermore."
"Are you bird or demon?" I said again, "By the heavens above us, and the God we both share, tell me if there is a lovely woman within distant Aidenn. A woman that the angels have named Lenore? Is there a woman named Lenore there?" And the raven said, "Nevermore."
I was still awestruck that a bird could say such things. But he was growing weary on my heart. I said to him, "I think it is time for you to go back to where ever you came from. And don't you leave any feathers here to remind me of you when you are gone! Just go." And the raven said, "Nevermore."
And here he sits to this same day. He has never left me, and has grown quite bothersome. He has the strangest eyes; they seem to see everything that goes on. I have started to think that maybe he really was sent by the demons, as he never eats and never sleeps. He just sits above my door. I feel that I am caught by the shadow that he casts. I shall see the world nevermore.
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The Raven
by Edgar Allan Poe
First Published in 1845
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 my chamber door.
" '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.
Eagerly I wished the morrow; vainly I had sought to borrow
From my books surcease of sorrow, sorrow for the lost Lenore,.
For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore,
Nameless here forevermore.
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,
"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,
That I scarce was sure I heard you." Here I opened wide the door;---
Darkness there, and nothing more.
Deep into the 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 chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,
Soon again I heard a tapping, something 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 wind, and nothing more."
Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,
In there stepped a stately raven, 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 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 raven, wandering from the nightly shore.
Tell me what the lordly name is on the Night's Plutonian shore."
Quoth the raven, "Nevermore."
Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,
Though 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,
With such name as "Nevermore."
But the raven, sitting lonely on that placid bust, spoke only
That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.
Nothing further 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."
Then the bird said, "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 raven still beguiling all my sad soul 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 yore --
What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt and ominous bird of yore
Meant in croaking "Nevermore."
Thus I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing
To the fowl, whose fiery 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 lamplight gloated o'er,
But whose velvet violet lining with the lamplight gloating o'er
She shall press, ah, nevermore!
Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer
Swung by seraphim whose footfalls 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, O quaff this kind nepenthe, and forget this lost Lenore!"
Quoth the raven, "Nevermore!"
"Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil!--prophet still, if bird 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!"
Quoth the raven, "Nevermore."
"Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil--prophet still, if bird or devil!
By that heaven that bends above us--by that God we both adore--
Tell this soul with sorrow laden, if, within the distant Aidenn,
It shall clasp a sainted maiden, whom the angels name Lenore---
Clasp a rare and radiant maiden, whom the angels name Lenore?
Quoth the raven, "Nevermore."
"Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!" I shrieked, upstarting--
"Get thee back into the tempest and the Night's Plutonian shore!
Leave no black plume 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 from off my door!"
Quoth the raven, "Nevermore."
And the raven, 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 demon's that is dreaming.
And the lamplight 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!
NOTE: This was an assignment for my CCV Creative Writing Workshop online class with Nancy Thompson.
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