The skies they were ashen and sober; The leaves they were crisped and sere - The leaves they were withering and sere; It was night in the lonesome October Of my most immemorial year.

And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor Shall be lifted - nevermore!

Here once, through an alley Titanic, Of cypress, I roamed with my Soul - Of cypress, with Psyche, my Soul.

And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door.

The melancholy days are come, the saddest of the year, Of wailing winds, and naked woods, and meadows brown and sere.

The gray-green stretch of sandy grass, Indefinitely desolate; A sea of lead, a sky of slate; Already autumn in the air, alas! One stark monotony of stone, The …

All the world is sad and dreary, Everywhere I roam.