Tis such a dreary tumble down

This lonesome Baltimore lane,

And tis such a pitiless wave of mist

Accosting this poor, rattled brain.

 

I follow a trail of her sad, sweet song:

A pale visage of the girl, of days long gone.

Her echoes delight—a raven flies;

Have I seen it somewhere before?

 

Nevermore shall I see my love, her voice

Such a sound of a chilling wind by the sea;

A dream within this dreadful dream

And that solitary tomb left there by me.

 

I kneel, and these crumbs of earth

Recall to me those golden grains

Once held long ago. O! Is there no mirth

Left to reclaim? Nothing left to gain?

 

And in this mist behold! a ghastly face:

His masque calls me, a voice shriller than oblivion,

 

Always murmuring my last symphony.

O! Peace! Peace, aching bones and heart!

 

I shall not keep these words for long.

Keep still  the fancies of the whimsy do!

The dance of mists and fairies begin anew

 

And spins me into dreadful madness too.

You villains!

These spirits fly! 

 

They whisper too; they know my toll.

O Mercy! Lord help my poor soul!