Once upon a midnight dreary, while he pondered, weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore—
While he nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of some one gently rapping, rapping at his chamber door—
"'Tis some visitor," he 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 cell.
Eagerly he wished the morrow;—vainly he had sought to borrow
From my books surcease of sorrow—sorrow for the lost Miss Belle—
For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Miss Belle—
Whom at fashion did excel.
And the silken, sad, uncertain rustling of each purple curtain
Thrilled him—filled him with fantastic terrors never felt before;
So that now, to still the beating of his heart, he 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 his soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,
"Sir," said he, "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 he opened wide the door;—
Darkness there and nothing more.
Deep into that darkness peering, long he stood there wondering, fearing,
Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream of Hell;
But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token,
And the only words there spoken were the whispered words, "Miss Belle?"
This he whispered, and an echo murmured back the words, "Miss Belle!"—
Speaking softly, not a yell.
Back into the chamber turning, all his soul within him burning,
Soon again he heard a tapping somewhat louder than before.
"Surely," said he, "surely that is something at my window lattice;
Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore—
Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore;—
'Tis the wind and nothing more!"
Open here he flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,
In there stepped a stately Owlet 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 his small cell's door—
Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above his chamber door—
Perched, and sat, and nothing more.
Then this brownish bird beguiling his sad fancy into smiling,
By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore,
"Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou," he said, "art sure no craven,
Ghastly grim and ancient Owlet wandering from the Nightly shore—
Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night's Plutonian shore!"
Quoth the Owlet "Who."
He blinked. "You, that is who!" said he to the fowl.
He waited for a response from the brown owl.
Quoth the Owlet "Who."
"You" the drake said again.
Waiting for reply when -
Quoth the Owlet "Who."
His face grew red, not blue
"You! That's who! You!You!You!"
Quoth the Owlet "Who."
A thought came to him as he yelled at the bird above the door.
"Hey! You are saying your line all wrong! You should say 'Nevermore.'"
Quoth the Owlet "Who."
He pointed to the owl above the door.
"You, owl, you. Say your line right, I implore."
Quoth the Owlet "Who."
"Say 'Nevermore' from your perch upon my décor,
Then I can relate to you of a love so sore."
Quoth the Owlet "Who."
"Off to Canterlot, that lovely dame,
Off to Canterlot, to make a name."
Quoth the Owlet "Who."
"The fair unicorn, whom the angels named Miss Belle,
Oh, for an ounce of her love my soul I would sell.
Quoth the Owlet "Who."
"Me! Spike! You know who I am."
His tightened fist he did slam.
Quoth the Owlet "Who."
"Spike! Twilight's aide, the young dragon with the crush,
Who around Rarity always has a blush!"
Quoth the Owlet "Who."
"Leave my private chamber you bird most foul,
And may I never see another owl!"
Quoth the Owlet "Who."
At first he let out a growl,
Then in anger a howl.
He blew from his mouth fire,
At the bird who was higher.
The room became filled with flame,
He knew who would take the blame.
He turned and ran quickly out the door,
Hoping to see the bird nevermore.
Looking at the castle all alight,
It was a lovely, ghastly sight.
"Spike!" came a loud voice full of bite.
The drake saw an irate Twilight.
"Uh, your castle is no more,
Your forgiveness I implore?"
Quoth the Owlet "Who."
"Spike! Spike! Spike! That's who!" the drake did burst.
At least he didn't ask "Who's on first?"