Might as well brush the dust off this one . . .
Once upon a midnight dreary, while I Elmoleaf 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 some one gently rapping, rapping at my woodstove’s door.
“‘Tis but a burning log,” I muttered, “knocking against my woodstove’s door
Only this, and nothing more.”
Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the cold December,
And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.
Eagerly I wished for some Dunkin’Donuts or an ice cream cone; vainly I had sought to borrow
From my books surcease of sorrow - sorrow for the lost Hearthstone
For the rare and beautiful woodstove whom the angels name Hearthstone
Nameless here for evermore.
And the silken sad uncertain knocking in the flue
Thrilled me - filled me with fantastic terrors never having had a chimney fire, no clue;
So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating,
“‘Tis some burned log falling against my woodstove’s door
Some sap-filled piece of pine exploding against my woodstove’s door;
This it is, and nothing more.”
Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,
Aloud I said, “I read about this at hearth.com . . . but now I know I should have read more”;
But the fact is I was napping, and now this sound comes rapping,
And so faintly it is now tapping, tapping at my woodstove’s door,
That I scarce was sure I heard the sound” - here I opened wide the woodstove door;
Darkness there, and nothing more.
Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,
Wondering if somehow I had forgotten to fill the stove while half asleep in “the zone”;
But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token,
And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, “Hearthstone!”
This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, “Hearthstone!”
Merely this, and nothing more.
Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,
Soon again I heard a tapping in the stove somewhat louder than before.
“Surely,” said I, “surely that is something in my woodstove flue:
Let me see, then, what should I do, and this mystery explore
Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore;
‘Tis the wind since I have a flue damper and nothing more.”
Open here I flung open the woodstove door, 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 woodstove door
Perched upon a bust of Moderator Craig 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.
“My home is not for geese, spiders, starlings or bats,” I said, “my home is not your haven,
Ghastly grim and ancient raven wandering from the Nightly shore
“Holy Mother of Moses, tell me your name or I’ll deck you from here to Maine’s rocky 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 blest with seeing bird above his woodstove’s door
Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his woodstove’s door,
With such name as “Nevermore.”
But the raven, sitting lonely on the 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, “Now listen Chummy. I think it’s wicked neat that you can talk
And it’s obvious to me that you’re kind of special, because ravens are only supposed to squawk.”
Then the bird said, “Nevermore.”
Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,
“Now this is cunning,” said I, “it’s plain to me that this bird is clearly not as dumb as a hake,
He must have come from down the road a piece, probably from Ol’ Farmer Reese
Ol’ Reese probably taught him that trick, Trying to rattle me a bit, make me quake,
Get me all riled up, keep me up a night, keep me awake
Quote the raven ‘Never - nevermore’.”
But the Raven still beguiling all my fancy into smiling,
Straight he flew up into the chimley without a squawk, without a roar;
Left me to wonder if I didn’t need to buy a chimney cap,
Fancy unto fancy, I no longer thought of the donuts or my ACLS that I had once tore
Now I knew what this bird of yore
Meant in croaking “Nevermore.”
