Short Story Selections

 Originally by: Edgar Allan Poe 

IT was on a dark and weary midnight, lost in thought, worn down, and tired, 

 Leafing through strange, forgotten stories, secrets ancient and expired. 

 My head was nodding, eyes half-closing, when I heard a soft tap-tap, 

 Like someone gently knocking, rapping at my chamber’s gap— 

 “Just a visitor,” I whispered, knocking at my chamber’s gap— 

 Only this, just that small tap. 

I remember — clear as ever — it was deep December’s gloom, 

 Flickering embers casting ghostly shapes across the room. 

 Desperately I longed for morning, tried to ease this ache I bore, 

 Searched for comfort in the pages, but the sorrow only soared— 

 Sorrow for my lost Lenore, that shining soul the angels adore— 

 Gone from me… forever.

 

The velvet curtains whispered low, their rustling strange, uncertain, 

 Filling me with haunting fears that curled behind the curtain. 

 So, to calm my pounding chest, I spoke aloud once more, 

 “Just a visitor, late-night, knocking at my chamber door— 

 Nothing but a visitor tapping at my chamber door— 

 Only this, and nothing more.” 

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But my soul grew bolder, steady now, I rose from where I sat, 

 “Forgive me,” I called, “I was sleeping — I barely heard your pat. 

 So soft your knock, I doubted even that my ears had caught the sound.” 

 With that, I swung the door wide open — darkness there, and nothing found. 

 Only shadows, nothing more — empty night, and nothing more. 

Peering deep into the black, I lingered there, unsure, 

 Wondering, fearing, dreaming dreams no soul had dared before. 

 The silence stretched unbroken, stillness thick, and frozen air, 

 The only word I breathed was, “Lenore,” it drifted on the stairs… 

 A whisper back — just “Lenore” — an echo fading into air… 

 Only this, and nothing more. 

Heart ablaze, I shut the door, yet soon the sound returned again, 

 Louder now, upon the window — pulling at my strained refrain. 

 “Surely,” I said, “this mystery hides behind the glassy door, 

 Let me see what ghostly whisper rides upon the midnight’s roar, 

 Calm your heart a moment, steady — solve the mystery, nothing more— 

 It’s the wind, and nothing more.” 

But when I flung the shutter wide, with wings of black it swept inside, 

 A Raven, dark as shadowed stone, from ancient, haunted times it shined. 

 It did not bow, nor pause, nor flutter, silent, proud, and grim, 

 With lordly air it perched alone above my chamber door, 

 Upon the head of the statue high above my chamber door— 

 Perched, and stared, and nothing more. 

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This dark bird stirred a smile beneath my sorrow, strangely deep, 

 Its solemn face, its ancient gaze, that made the shadows creep. 

 “Though your feathers are tattered, your eyes so grim,” I said, “you're brave, 

 Mysterious, ghostly Raven, drifting from the midnight wave— 

 Tell me now, your noble name, upon the Night’s dark shore you crave.” 

 Said the Raven, “Never.” 

Stunned, I marveled — such a plain reply from something so obscure, 

 Though its meaning barely mattered, still it held a spectral lure. 

 For no soul alive or breathing, ever looked upon their door, 

 And seen a bird above it, perched upon the sculpted lore— 

 A creature grim, with words that burn: that single word — “Never.” 

Yet still it sat upon that bust, alone, its word the only sound, 

 As if its soul was poured into that echo, stark and bound. 

 It stirred not a wing, not a feather quaked, it kept the silence, 

 “Others have left before,” I muttered, “flown away into the night— 

 Tomorrow, too, this bird will leave, like hope has lost its fight.” 

 Then the Raven: “Never.” 

Startled by that chilling word, so perfectly returned, 

 “Surely,” I said, “it’s learned this line, from some soul lost and spurned— 

 Some wretched master, sorrow-drowned, by fate and ruin torn, 

 Whose only song, his final breath, was of ‘Never… Never again.’” 

 Whose shattered hopes repeated that dark word — “Never.” 

But the Raven stirred my soul, I couldn’t help but play the game, 

 Dragging up my velvet chair to sit beneath its name, 

 Lost in thought, I pieced together meanings from its yore, 

 What this ominous, eerie creature, perched above my chamber door, 

 What this ghostly, grim intruder meant in croaking “Never.” 

I sat in quiet study, its burning eyes upon my heart, 

 While the velvet cushion's shadow, glowing in the lamp's faint art, 

 Lay beneath me like a memory — though her touch would grace no more— 

 That soft and violet lining where Lenore once curled before, 

 In this life, ah… never again. 

Suddenly, the air grew thicker — scented sweet as if from prayer, 

 Phantom footsteps lightly echoed through the heavy, ghostly air. 

 “Wretch,” I cried, “God sent you angels, sent you mercy, sent you rest, 

 Sent you forgetfulness, sweet wine, to ease the ache within my chest— 

 Drink this draught, forget Lenore, release the sorrow in your chest.” 

 Said the Raven, “Never.” 

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“Prophet,” I said, “or demon, still — bird or beast of shadowed shore— 

 Whether fate or storm has flung you to my haunted chamber door, 

 Desolate, yet undaunted, in this place where horrors dwell— 

 Tell me, I beg you, is there peace, is there hope — can you tell? 

 Is there balm in Gilead? Speak the truth, I implore you, tell!” 

 Said the Raven, “Never.” 

“Prophet,” I cried, “you thing of night — whether shade or cursed foe— 

 By the heavens arching above us, by the God we both may know, 

 Tell me truly — will I meet her, in the distant Eden's skies, 

 Hold again my sainted maiden, see the light within her eyes, 

 Touch my rare and radiant Lenore beneath eternal skies?” 

 Said the Raven, “Never.” 

“Then be gone!” I screamed, despairing, “Back into the night you came from, 

 Leave no trace, no plume, no shadow, no more lies upon my name, 

 Take your talons from my heart, your darkness from my door!” 

 But the Raven, never moving, only spoke that word once more— 

 Frozen there, upon the statue, haunting still, forevermore. 

And the Raven, never leaving, still is sitting, still is there, 

 Upon the head of the statue, casting shadows, still it stares. 

 Those eyes — they burn like demon dreams, alive with ghostly lore, 

 And the lamplight’s dull reflection spills its shadow on the floor, 

 And my soul within that shadow, drifting, broken on the floor, 

 Shall be lifted… never again.