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 dared to dream before;
But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token
And the only sound 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 it, 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, nothing more.
Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,
By this grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore,
‘Thou thy crest be shorn and shaven thou,’ said I, ‘art sure no craven,
Ghastly, grim, and ancient raven wandering from the nightly shore.
Tell me what the lordly name is on the Nights Plutonian shore.’
Quoth the raven, ‘Nevermore.’
Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,
Though its answer little meaning to relevancy bore,
For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being
Ever yet was blessed with seeing a bird above his chamber door,
Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door,
With such a name as ‘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.’
I quite like it, don't you? But then, I'm a lass that adores Edgar Allen Poe, probably because I love horror, or thrillers, and all such things stem from Poe. Literally, you can find inspiration for ANY horror movie from something that Poe wrote if you go back far enough. It's fascinating no?
Love...such a bittersweet emotion. A very, very dear friend of mine, the first guy I actually felt comfortable with admitting that I loved him actually, contact me today. I'm torn between joy, as happy as anyone can be, that I can talk to him, catch up with him...and the blackest, darkest pits of despair because I know that this is only a brief interaction, and either I'll have to leave, or he will and our few precious, precious moments in time, will be over all to soon and all I'll have to hold will be the bittersweet memories.
Memories so sweet, so painful, yet all the more treasured.
We have a history you see, me and him. He was harmed, his heart shattered by women, and as a result he didn't trust us. I found him, and mended his heart. He tells me that the part of his heart that I occupy, is the space that will never break. You wonder why I love him so?
But, it's not just him that I adore, there's a friend of his. You'll remember, if you scroll down my blogs, to one of the ones in April, the poem? My friend who suicided, and missed? He, I love as much. So much that it hurts. How can a heart love with equal intensity, two different men? It hurts to love so...yet I wouldn't not want to know them for the world.
My samurai, my knight, my loves. How I miss you...
