RAVIN'S OF PIUTE POET POE


Once, upon a midnight dreary, eerie, scary,
I was wary, I was weary, full of worry, thinking of my lost Lenore,
Of my cheery, airy, faerie, fiery dearie--(Nothing more).
I was napping, when a tapping on the overlapping coping woke me
	gapping, leaping, groping... toward the rapping. I went
	hopping, leaping... hoping that the rapping on the coping
Was my little lost Lenore.
That on opening the shutter to admit the latter critter, in she'd
	flutter from the gutter with her bitter eyes aglitter;
So I opened wide the door, what was there? The dard weir and drear
	moor,--or I'm a liar--the dark mire, the drear moor, the
	mere door, and nothing more!

Then in stepped a stately Raven, shaven like the bard of Avon; yes,
	a rovin' grievin' Raven, seeking haven at my door.
Yes, that shaven, rovin' Raven had been movin' (Get me, Stephen)
	for the warm and lovin' haven of my stove and oven door--
    Oven door, and nothing more.

Ah, distinctly I remember, every ember that December turned from
	amber to burnt umber;
I was burning limber lumber in my chamber that December, and it
	left an amber ember.
With a silken, sad uncertain flirtin' of a certain curtain,
That old raven, cold and callous, perched upon the bust of Pallas,
    Just above my chamber door;
(A lusty, trusty bust thrust just
    Above my chamber door.)
Had that callous cuss shown malice? Or sought solace, there on
	Pallas?
    (You may tell us, Alice Wallace).
Tell this soul with sorrow laden, hidden in the shade, an'
	broodin'--
If a maiden out of Eden sent this sudden bird invadin'
My poor chamber; and protrudin' half an inch above my door.
Tell this broodin' soul (he's breedin' bats by too much sodden
	readin'--readin'
    Snowden'd ode to Odin)
Tell this soul by nightmares ridden, if (no kiddin') on a sudden
He shall clasp a radiant maiden born in Aiden or in Leyden or
	indeed in
    Baden-Baden--
Will he clasp this buddin' maiden, gaddin' in forbidden Eden,
	Whom the angels named Lenore?
Then that bird said: "Nevermore."

"Prophet," said I,  "thing of evil, navel, novel, or boll weevil,
You shall travel, on the level! Scratch the gravel now and
	travel!
Leave my hovel, I implore."
And that raven, never flitting, never knitting, never tatting,
Never spouting "Nevermore."
Still is sitting (out this ballad) on that solid bust (and pallid)
	--on that solid, valid, pallid bust above my chamber door;
And my soul is in his shadow, which lies floating on the floor,
Fleeting, floating, yachting, boating on the fluting of the
	matting--
    Matting on my chamber floor.

					Charles L. Edson